LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf ....'.?.'3 ^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, 

WILLIAM WALTON, 

PRESIDENT OF THE BROOKLYN PRESS CLUB, 



THE PLUTOCRAT. 



A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS. 



/ 

OTTO FREDERICK SCHUPPHAUS, 



NEW YORK : 



A. LOVELL & CO 

185)2. 



p5 Z721 



Copyright, 1892, by 
Otto Fhedehick Schupphaus. 



PEEFACE 



A DRAMA in lilfink vei'se may challenge criticism 
by sngg-esting a certain presnmption on the part 
of the authoi- ; l)nt the form having seemed fitting 
in the present case, the anthor saw no reason why 
he shonld defer to any literary superstition by 
choosing another. The Ijook looks for an audi- 
ence amid the thousands, aye, the millions, who 
watch with eager interest the greatest struggle 
waged in modern times — the struggle between 
the rich and the poor, between capital and laboi'. 
It appeals to all who like to hear the unfettered 
voice of the whole people, not of one class only. 
It has been the author's aim to be strictly impar- 
tial. How far he has succeeded is for the reader 
to judge. 



DRAMATIS PERSON^]:. 



West, a rich mfimifaetiiTer. 
Henry, his siiperintciident. 
Ida Field, a widow. 
Alice, her dangliter. 
Jack, ] 
Paul, 
George, 

Patrick, ^- woikiiigmeu. 
Peter, 
Charles^ 
Fred, 
Mary, a servant. 
Lawyer, porter, servants, and workingmeu. 



The many still must labor for the one ! 

Byron, "The Corsair 



THE PLUTOCRAT. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. Room in Mrs. FielcVs Rouse. 

Ida. Yes, Alice will be home to-day, I hear. 
How long it seems since last I saw lier ! Ali ! 
If she but knew how great has been my grief, 
How much it costs me to be far from her, 
And let her grow up under strangers' eyes. 
Then she might understand a mother's love ! 
But what will not an ardent mother do 
To see her darling happy and content ? 
If sorrow is the price of happiness, 
Tlien Heaven may grant that all shall yet be 
well ! 

Henry. Well, madam, you will proudly meet 
yom* child — 
An image, closely copied, of yourself. 



8 THE FLUTOCILIT. 

She was no stranger at my micle's school. 
Before her gunny and ingenuous cliarm 
His pedantry quite melted. He loved her, 
She was his pride, and even his own gh-ls 
I lad not a better friend in him than she. 
AV'e all adored her — fairy she was called. 
The name is fitting ; she's as beautiful — 
As beautiful as is — 

Ida. An angel ! 

Henri/. No, 

Just let us say : as is her mother fail*. 
I am no flatterer, accept my word. 
But when I saw you first I truly thought 
'Twas she, so does her face repeat your own. 

Ida. Your words cause more than mere embar- 
rassment. 
iSuch reckless compliment is dangerous ; 
And were your pretty phrases quite sincere 
They j'et would be in ti'utli love s labor lost. 
Our life is too distraught for em oty woi'ds ! 

Henry. Upon my honor, madam, you are 
wrong ! 
I am no gallant — as you think I am. 
You must perceive my rude facihty. 
If I have been offensive, pardon me. 
I may have been too blunt, but truth is truth ! 
I ;im no man with sleek society arts. 



THE rLVTOCHAT. 9 

Grown up in earnest work among' my books, 
1 could not seize the superficial gloss 
You'll find in gilded youths. But what I say 
Has honest meaning, is no soft deceit. 

Ida. I will believe your words ; you are 
sincere. 
And I can trust you. Yes, I am still young ; 
When yet a child I also was a wife. 
Yet care has seemed to make me quickly old. 
And thought of all that I have had to bear 
Imparts a sound of mockery to praise. 

Heuvy. AMiatever griefs have hurt you, I know 
not ; 
I only know I grieve to see j^ou sad. 
Forgive — I am impulsive. If you need 
A friend, beheve that I am one who would 
Be proud to stand wdth you against the world. 
I'm simple-hearted, yet I'm strong and true. 
It (juite unmans me thus to hear you sigh. 
If I can help you, speak ! You've naught to do 
But to command me. 

Ida. You are very kind. 

Your friendship cheers me, and your manly words 
Have won my confidence. If I had known 
A friend like you in years now sadly past, 
All might be well, but — ■ 



10 THE PLVTOVRAT. 

Enter Mary, 

Mdnj. Mr. West is here. 

Idu. Mr. Henry, 3'ou iiiust leave me ! lie 
Must not suspect that you are here, and I 
Cannot explain. Quick ! let this curtain serve 
To hide you here. [Exit Henry. 

Elder West. 
^Yest. How is my gentle friend ? 

I hope you're happy and enjoymg life. 
How flushed you look, my dear ! Did you shed 

tears 
For your dead husband ? True, he was a man 
Whom all the world could love, as strong and 

handsome 
As Adonis. Loving you so Avell ! 
He loved you with such love he fled away 
To die with strangers, far from Ikhuc and wife. 
He did not wish you near him then ; he feared 
The shock would kill you. Ah, he was so nol/le ! 
Doubtless, then, he died of love. Sad fate ! 
But all beloved by God, they say, die young ! 
Ida. I wish He'd love you more, then, ]Mr. 

West. 
West. And could you breathe so harsh a wish ? 

Your words 
Quite shock me. Surely yon can't mean — 



THE rLUTVCUAT. 11 

Ida. Desist ! 

^yest. But lieed, my gentle friend; are you 

not wrong- 
To heap abuse upt)n your truest friend? 
Was it not I who g-ave you strong support 
To Iji-ave this Hfe when all your friends wei-e 

gone ? 
And this though you refused my heart and hand, 
And did not hesitate to speak your hate. 
Is this a due reward for my great love ? 

Ida. If you have come to taunt me with 

account 
Of youi" good offices, go on, go on ! 
Make bleed anew the wounds now hardly healed. 
And spare me not ; just kill me incli by inch ! 
^ doubt not that the torture pleases you. 

H>.s/. Speak not of pleasure, when you know 

so well 
j\Iy life is spent in work for others' weal, 
Not for my own. And yet, 'tis strange, the more 
I love, the more I'm hated ; even you, 
Who have all reason to show gratitude. 
You hate me more than all the rest combined. 
I've been your heartlessly rejected swain, 
But never have I thought of sweet revenge 
When I might well have taken it. To you 
I freely give the comforts of this life, 



12 THE rLLTOCUAT. 

►Still you persist ! But wliy should I coniplain ? 
My conscience is — 

Ida. Your conscience, did you say? 

You never had a conscience ! if you had 
It is not seen. O unctions hji^ocrite ! 
You know the reason of my hate. 'Twas you 
Who took my husband from me ! I know not 
By what foul means you made your schemes 

succeed. 
You broke his heart, j^ou made liim flee and die. 
He thought me false, distrusted me, who never 
Loved a man but him ! I did not see 
My husband till grim death had done its work. 
Then 'twas by your good grace — ^j^ou had revenge ! 

West. Revenge is sweet, 'tis very often said — 
I do not know. I only know that love 
Is sweeter — not that love of which your poets 
Sing romantic strains, but that true love. 
That love— 

Ida. Of serpents whose embrace is death ! 

^Yest. Has such a sentiment kept you aloof ? 
I see it now ! But I am not so bad. 
And if I were a serpent, it were one 
That did not shine in many brilliant hues, 
And did not sting you to your very heart ! 

Ida. You cownrd! You can go too far ^^^th 
this ! 



THE rLUTOCBAT. 13 

West. Weep, my fair friend; your feelings 
need the vent. 
I could weep with you, for I know your giief 
And feel it keenly. Call me vilest names ; 
All these offend me not, if they but give 
Some slight rehef to you. So goes the world ! 
Beauty and youth are naught if they're not paired 
With Mammon. Gold's the greatest of all kings, 
Yes, gold is very life, and gold is might ; 
It makes the greatest Avi'ong the greatest right. 
You have refused to profit by this truth, 
Your beauty has but been your luckless star. 
And now must Alice turn to do that well 
Wherein her handsome mother failed. And, 

How is my Alice ? 

Ida. She returns to-day. 

And on my knees here. West, I now implore you, 
Leave the girl to me ! If you but knew 
The long and bitter anguish of my soul ; 
If you could know how eagerly I long 
To clasp her to my heart ; if you could feel 
The thousandth part of a true mother's love — 
Then even your impassive heart might melt. 
Ah ! Let me have my child ! For once have pity ! 
Then I could forgive ! I can bear all. 
But let my child alone, let her be happy ! 



14 THE FLUTOCBAT. 

West. Alice shall be happy, but with me ; 
And all that money buys is freely hers — 
Her costliest whims shall all be gratified. 
I hope you didn't forget your contract yet — 
The girl is mine, and she shall be my wife ! 
On that condition I have brought her up 
In eultiu'ed comfort and have cared for you. 
Now you as well must do your part. 

Ida. My part ! 

Cursed be that fatal hour of dark despair 
When I consented to the sinful scheme ! 
I only yielded in the feeble hope 
That Providence would kindly interfere — 

West. And I might die ; but Providence, my 
dear. 
Hasn't been so kind — to you ; I live, 
And come to claim my just and due reward. 
Now let the girl enjoy my princely wealth. 

Ida. How little men perceive of woman's 
heart ! 
You cannot buy her love with aU the riches 
You may own. 

We.sf. Yet money still is king ! 

That you still doubt it wlio have felt its might, 
(^uite daunts my comprehension, Ida ; for 
If money buys not love, at least it buys 
That semblance which is all I care to ask. 



THE I'/ATOCL'AT. 15 

If she's in duty l)ound to love but me, 
Why shoTild she not? 

Ida. But duty is not love. 

West. Yet women, as you know, are soon 
inured 
To unions that at first may scarcely please ; 
And knots that wisdom binds with useful g'old 
Are always strongest. Well you know 
What 'tis to love, and what it is to bear 
The pangs of want. But not for me I speak ! 
If you prefer to see your lovely child 
Fight for herself the battle of this life, 
To see her float in momentary bliss, 
Then sink at last in ruin and despau-. 
It rests with you ; just say the word, my friend, 
And I'll retire. 

1(1(1. You're right in all you say ; 

And yet the foi'ced alternative is harsh. 
God knows the strain the wish to save her want 
Has put upon my heart ; for I have yearned 
To give her golden gain though love be gone. 
But leave me now alone ; I am not well — 
My brain is whirling, leave me ! 

Wpsf. Is this, then, 

A bargain ? You will not deceive me now ? 
It is not safe for you and yours ! Farewell ! 
And may Grod bless you ! [Exit ^Ye.st. 



16 I'HE VLVTOL'RAT. 



Enter Henry. 



Henry. Did I hear aright ? 

Is Alice sold — sold, like a slave, for gold '? 
Yes, worse than sold, she's — 

Ida. Sold him by her mother ! 

Yes, condemn me. What don't I deserve ? 
May God forgive ; from men I crave no grace ! 

Henry. What do yon say? Condemn yon? 
No, not that, 
Bnt I mnst feel the horror of your fate. 
O, for the power to crush the cruel hand 
That injures you ! To have the strength to hurl 
Him into deepest gloom ! Condemn you ? No, 
You're innocent ; I can believe but that. 

Idt(. You frighten me with your ingenuous 
faith. 
I know full well that I must bear the blame. 
My trials seem severe, for how could I 
Let Alice die in want and misery ? 
Perhaps 'twould have been better in the end. 
Why did I dream of fortune for my child ? 
Why longed I for revenge ^^\ day and night .' 
Why did I think of Alice as a means 
To ruin West as he has ruined us? 
Why did I let such wild, unruly thoughts 
Imbue my mind with such unholy aims ? 



THE rLVTOCUAT. 17 

But as I've loved I've hated ! Clod forgive ! 
All this is past, to Tliee I leave revenge ; 
Give me but strength to find the right way now, 
And let my child's fate be the best it may, 
For mine has been a most unhappy one ! 
Heaven only knows — what words can never tell — 
What I've endured, and how I have atoned ; 
But I have borne it — borne it for my child. 
Now let the fruit be worth the sacx'iiice ! 

Henry. I understand your grief, I see its depth ; 
But do not be despondent, lose not hope ! 
Here 'stands a friend who only seeks the chance 
To save you from this loathsome suitor, this 
Great hypocrite in guise of friend. Keep heart, 
You have no right to kill yourself with grief ; 
Your life should not be wasted in despair. 

Ida. If you had seen what I have seen, my 
friend, 
You'd look on life in quite another light. 
I honor you, and be assm-ed that naught 
That might my daughter's lot improve shall go 
Undone. Doubt not my heart ! I've loved too 

well; 
But love alone can never give to us 
A perfect happiness. I won't find fault. 
But if, as I am told, you love my girl, 
Forget her ! And believe it for the best ! 



18 THE FLVTOCIIAT. 

You are still yoiiiiy, you can and will forget. 
Make not still harder my but too hard task. 

Hinrij. Don't speak like that ! Forgive me if 
I say 
We cannot lean on sentiment. We must 
Use energy — not bow before defeat. 
We must do battle for Fortnna's smile, 
It will not do to merely Avait for it. 
I should not interfere did not your good 
Most certainly demand that some one sli(»nld. 
It is my sacred duty, and no man 
Can hold me l^ack. It is not for myself ; 
It is for yon as well as for your child, 
And yon not least, since snch distressing state 
Is more than yoTi can bear. 

Ida. I feel the strain. 

And I am grateful tov yoni' nolile words ; 
But now I feel too well it is too late ! 

Hcin-ij. Too late? Refuse that thought; 
thei'e's ample time 
To win the fight ! Take but a quick resolve, 
Cut every bond that binds you to this man. 
And leave with me the care for both of you. 
Leave me the struggle I will gladty make 
To bi'ing you peace, to make you quickly lose 
The memory of these cloiuls. 

Ida. Your words are nnisic, 



THE I'LI rocL'AT. 19 

Yet tliey torture when I think the truth. 

I know too well that it can never be ! 

You do not know the man yon rage against : 

His craftiness and cunning- strike a blow 

Like cruel lightning. Well he knows the might 

His money brings ; and should you cross his path 

He'd crush you — blast the prospects of your life. 

You arc in his employ : one word from him 

And you wiU lose your place. Whom once he 

hates 
Will find no rest while he has strength to hurt. 
And more, instead of helping us, you help 
Increase the danger of worse blows for us. 

Ileiii'i/. I do not d()ul)t that he is all 3'ou say, 
But that shall not deter me in this cause. 
It is a crime to let him claim your girl, 
To sell her lieauty to a heartless \^Tetch ! 

LJa. That is a bitter truth. I know full well 
How galling is the thought of yielding her 
To one whom I so thoroughly despise. 
To you this rightly seems a monstrous thing : 
Alternatives force us to dreadful deeds. 
My daughter does not know the world, and I 
Have no intent of teaching her these things. 
He loves her in his way, no doubt of that. 
And with the riches that he has, can make 
Her life an easy and a pleasant one. 



20 TBE FLUroCILlT. 

And then — and then — I know the thought is sin, 
But drowning- people often catch at straws — 
He's okl — he cannot Hve forever ! 

Hem-y. Old ! 

His age can never save the stain of \^Tong. 
Though Alice lived with all material gifts 
She still would suffer for the loss of love. 
That sinful bond, that gilded misery 
Would 1)reak her heart ; and hearts like hers are 

born 
For love, which is the sunshine of her life. 

Ida. But if she does not marry him she then 
Will feel the taste of poverty, and that 
Has power to imbitter the whole soul ; 
It sears the heart and makes the conscience hard ; 
It crushes out the thought of nobler things — 
And more in women than it does in men. 
I then l)ut choose what seems the smaller ill. 
Tis natural to seek the hammer's part 
Than to be made the hammer-beaten plate. 

Henry. It seems to me you fear this man too 
much. 
Is he a giant with a Titan's strength. 
That right dare not oppose his cruel might ? 

Ida. Yes, I do fear him, I confess to that ; 
I have no doubt that I should seal our doom 
If I ojiposed him. Yes, I fear him much : 



TUE I'LUTOCIUT. 21 

Not for myself, but more for those I love. 
If he had seeu you here you Avould be marked, 
'Twould be enough to make you lose yom' place. 
Henry. Your fear seems almost superstitious; 

but 
Don't fear for me — no need of that as yet ; 
I shall now try by deeds, and not by words. 
To merit your esteem, perhaps your love. 
I will defy this ravager of homes ! 
He's wronged you — that is plain and quite 

enough ; 
And if his power were ten times as great, 
He should yet pay for that. 

Ida. . Control yourself ! 

Think not of me ; I've learned to bear it all ; 
And I implore you, pray you, for your sake, 
Do nothing rash, be not so fierce ! Your rage 
WiR but destroy yourself, not injure him. 
And I should feel that I had been the cause. 
Be warned in time of my depressing fate — 
That those who loved me and whom I have 

loved 
Have met an early doom. Be warned in time ! 
Henry. [Aside] Yet death were welcome if it 

were for her ! 
[Aloud] Your views are gloomy, but I shall be 

warned. 



22 THE rLUTOCUAT. 

Still let lue make one last and great endeavor; 
If I made no elfort I eonld feel 
Xo comfort in my after-life. To fail 
Is possible, hnt failing in a cause 
So good is ])etter than to fail to act. 
I still could have the vision of a true, 
A sweet, angelic woman blessing me. 
That thought can make me now serene, and fit 
For supei-human struggles. Trust my strength. 
Ida. You are a strange, a very strange young 
man, 
Unlike the ordinary types we meet. 
And yet your instincts, I can feel, are true. 
But those Avith loftiest aims are often known 
To be misled. The truest, noblest minds 
Ai-e in perpetual danger. True it is 
That common men stay in their common sphere, 
"While those with lofty aims can never rest. 
They strive to spur their common clay and fly, 
And often fall to depths of sad despair. 
Before you try to fight a man like West 
Remember all the chances of defeat. 
I must compose myself ; I'm now a i)roy 
To my emotions, and I need some rest; 
In such a state I should not greet my child. 
And she will soon be here. You'll pardon me 
If in the garden I collect myself. 



THE riATOCUAT. 23 

And you, if nothiug calls you hence iu haste, 
Might linger till she comes. [Exit Ida. 

Henry. Am I a madman or am I a villain"? 
Who's this woman ? Who this creature fair 
That fills my breast with this soul-])uriiing fii*e ? 
What did she say of her depressing fate — 
'• That those who loved me and whom I have loved 
Have met an early doom." If she loves me 
Perhaps my end is near. But this is raving. 
Can she love one who deserves contempt ? 
Am I a madman or am I a villain ? 
Where's my sense of honor ? Has it gone '? 
Where is my pride, the master of my heart f 
Is it before her beauty dashed to pieces ? 
Where's my guardian angel, to withstand 
The mighty devil who has hold of me ? 
Here in the first hour of a strong temptation 
I'm a traitor to the truest, purest, 
And most trusting gii-1 that ever breathed ! 
Tliere is no punishment too hard for me ! 
I must despise myself : I am no man, 
I am a base, a mean, and heartless wretch ! 
I wrong them both, the mother and her girl ! 
But I will save them — save them fi-om this West, 
And then, perhaps, must save them from myself. 
Who am a danger also in their path. 



2"! THE rLUTOCL'AT. 

Enter Alice. 

Alice. Where is my iiiotlier ? Henry ! Is it 
yon ? 
But how yon look ! What ails you, boj' '/ You're 

pale. 
Why don't you speak to me? Is this yom- 

welcome 
For your little Alice, home again ? 

Hein-i/. Your mother's in the garden, I believe. 

Alice. How bad you are to keep me in sus- 
pense. 
Quick, what has happened, haughty, naught}^ boy ! 
I hope yon did not lose the l)Ook I sent. 

Henrij. I lost myself — 

Alice. Do not torment me so. 

What makes you look so gi'ave ? What are j'oui- 

thoughts ? 
Yon will not tell ? O, then you do not love 
Me half so much as I do you. 

Henri/. Ah I dou't ! 

Don't say I do not love you. "Tis not true ! 
Dut well I know I never .shall deserve 
A love so pure as yours. Believe me, child, 
All ycnir sweet gentleness and charming grace 
Are thrown away u\Hm a woi-fhless lad, 
Who cannot reach the sunnnit of vour love. 



THE rLUTOCEAT. 25 

Alice. Thank God that this is all ! I know 
your worth — 
It makes me prouder than the proudest girl. 
Be cheerf ulj and let sunlight have your face ; 
Kiss me for welcome, call me little pet, 
Then you'll forget your cares. 

Henvy. Alas, my pet ! 

You are too good. If you but knew the truth ! 

Alice. Don't he so solemn, it is not becoming ; 
You're not like yourseK, and I prefer 
Your usual mood. Be good, or I shall scold ! 
And now enough of that ; take me to her. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. A Garden. 

Alice. And was there ever happier giii than I ? 
A loving mother is the greatest boon, 
A mother who could move a heart of stone. 
I'm sui-e I don't deserve such happiness. 
Yet I can't love you more than I do now, 
My only, dearest mother ! Take my heart, 
'Tis aU I have. 

Ida. And you have mine, my dear. 

Throughout the lonely years of separation 
Love for you has grown to gi-eater strength. 

Alice. And so it has with me. I'm angry quite 
At Uncle West, he came so many times, 



2(j THE I'LL'TOCIUT. 

And brought me candy, dresses, books, and gems, 

But aiever brought me back to you. He said : 

" Yom- education first, and then the pleasure." 

Henry's uncle was to me a father, 

Yet I missed a mother's tender care. 

How often have I begged of Uncle West 

To bring you. How I scolded, wept, and raged, 

But all in vain ; he stood there hke a rock, 

Unmoved by tears. I don't know why, because 

In other things he was so generous. 

[To Henry] Now don't make such a face, you silly 

boy! 
Or are you even jealous of my uncle? 
Come ! Why are you so mysteiious ? 
Perhaps you've read a novel, fell in love 
With some fair heroine. A tragic thought ! 
But I absolve you, though I'm nuidly jealous. 
And exact that you shall tell her name. 
Who is she ? Let the fearful secret out ! 

Henry. [Aside"] Unconsciously you're very near 

the truth ; 
For real life has hardy heroines 
And l)eauty gi-eater than that set in books. 
[Aloud] No, no, I read no novels now — in fact, 
I hardly find the necessary time. 

Aliee. What a relief! This fear is off my 

mind ! 



THE PLUTOCRAT. '2.1 

XoAV I'll 1 )e inen-y ; be you nieny too ! 
Don't look so very stupid, Heury, please ; 
^^^lat win my mother tliiuk of you ? 

Henri). You're right, 

You're right, uiy dear, but she'll excuse the sin ; 
kShe is contented with 3'our love, she notes 
No mood of mine. You are her life and joy, 
And though you give to her your utmost love 
You cannot give her all that she deserves. 

1(1(1. My child, you must be just ; jow do not 
know 
The many things that sometimes trouble men. 
We can't be always merry. 

Alice. He has been, 

W\\\ can't he be so now ? If he has troubles 
I must share them — it's my sacred right. 
[To Ileni'ul And I insist on it, I want to know, 
Or make more trouble for you, sir ! 

Heiuij. Ah, weU ! 

Here is a willful little chatterbox ! 
My earnest thoughts but touched prosaic busi- 
ness. 

Alice. Even so, it is my business still ! 
But let that pass. You keep your gloomy 

thoughts, 
And tell me something sweet. 

Ileiu'tj. In you I could 



28 THE FLUTOCnAT. 

Find subjects sweet enoiigli if I might find 
Words fit to picture one too good for earth. 
Alice. Shall I take wings and fly away to 
heaven ? 
If I were safely there what would you do 
Without your little prattler ? 

Ida. Don't, my child ! 

Pray, tell me something of your life in school. 

Henry. Yes, do so, dear, I must go to my work, 
And, Alice, pray for my success this time. 

Alice. That I'U do willingly, with cheerful 
heart ; 
If it depends on that, then you may hope. 
For my best wishes always go with you. 

[Exit Henry. 

What can he mean? He truly frightened 

me! 

Ida. I cannot tell you, child, at least not now. 

Alice. If you know aU, then there can be no 

wrong. 
Ida. Yet for all that he acted a strange part ; 
I must confess I cannot fathom him. 
You're much attached to him, 'tis clearly seen : 
Your love seems even stronger than his own. 
Alice. Yes^ mother dear, my love is without 
bounds ; 
With every fiber of my heart I love ! 



THE PLUTOCRAT. 29 

He'll marry me as soon as lie has won 
The battle for the money that he needs ; 
And thoug'h his sti'ngg'le lasted ten long years, 
Or longer still, I faithfully could wait. 

I(ki. 0, what a httle foolish girl you are, 
jMy hopeful child ! Just let me tell you now 
That all these hopes are built on shifting sand, 
And both of you are children — nothing more. 

Alice. I know his talent, and I do not doubt 
His triumph. 

Ida. Child, your foolishness must cease. 

'Tis hard yoiu' dreams should vanish, but they 

must. 
You'll soon have grown a woman. 

Alice. Yes, I know. 

Yet, if I do, can't I then marry him ? 
He often swore he could but live with me. 
Why shoidd I kill him when I love Mm so f 

Ida. Men do not die of that peculiar ill. 
How many have thus spoken to yom* mother ! 
Most of them, I think, are still ahve. 

Alice. They're not like him, he never told a He. 

Ida. O, foolish cliild, think something of yom* 
future ! 

Alice. He's my future, he's my guiding star. 
And I shall foUow him through dai'k or light. 
From earliest years we have each other loved : 



30 THE PLUTOCRAT. 

There is no truer, dearer lad tliaii lie. 
We played together, and he guarded me. 
When I was ill he watched for numy nights 
Faithfully at my bedside, reading tales. 
And in the morning he went off to work. 
Whenever it was sought to make him cease, 
He cried, I know, as if his heart woidd break. 
Wliy should I turn from such a love as that ? 

Ida. You take too seriously, my dearest child. 
What young men say. They are not ahvays 

true, 
And hke to fly from floAver to other flower. 

Alice, I can't distrust him, and I never will : 
Distrust him is Hke doubting of my life ; 
He is my all, and I can ti'ust in him. 
He is romantic — who finds fault with that ? — 
But that he's false I never can believe. 
And even if he ceased to love but me, 
I should resign to gixa my Henry joy 
Were my own heart to break in the attempt ! 

Ida. O AUce, how suldime, how good you aie ! 
I am ashamed to have you tortm'ed, child. 
Forgive me — I will try to set aright 
That which I've turned. Now go and see your 

room, 
How gayly I have dressed it for my gii'l ; 
111 get some flowers and soon will join you there. 



THE flATOLUAT. 3t 

Alice. But fii'.st give me a hearty^ liearty kiss ! 

[Exit Alice. 

Ida. Shall I be ti'eaelierous to my only child, 
And undermine the bliss that fills her heart ? 
^Inst I not spare her sueh a fate as mine, 
And let her worldly welfare be the aim 
That solely is to be considered now I 
Or shall I leave her in her happy dream, 
And thereby drag her to a certain doom ? 
But will her heart not l:)reak if I refuse 
To give consent to such a luckless match ? 
Have I a right, then, to deny her that 
For which I paid so dear? Is there no hope? 
Can't Henry save us f He has said he WM^uld, 
Though I don't see how he can meet the task. 
He lacks, it seems, not courage nor good-will. 
Yet some essential to complete success. 
But I will act myself, will try once more 
With all my might to move West's stubborn mind. 
If I should tell him of their mutual love, 
He cannot love or well demand a wife 
Who coiild ])ut hate him, though he turn her lieai-t 
Prom all she loved and ever cherished there. 
God give me strength for this, my last attempt, 
And bless me in my fight for my dear child ! 

[Exit Ida. 



32 57/A' rLVTOCllAT. 



ACT II. 



Scene I. Entrance to Wests Private Office. 

George. O, save yom*self the trouble, Jack, mj' 
boy, 
Yon'U try in vain to move that fat old sinner. 
Jdcl'. I mnst risk it, George ; my poor wife's 
life 
Depends on the result. 

George. I A\dsh you luck ! [Aside] I'm sorry 
for his wife ; 
If it depends on West, her life is lost. 

[Exit George. 

Scene II. West's Private Office. 

Jar],-, (jood-niorning-, sir ; if I do not intrude, 
I'd like to ask a moment of your time. 

We.st. What is it. Jack ? Come to the point ! 
You know 
I can't afford to make a waste of time, 
For time is money. 

Jack. Yes, I will be short. 

T]ie thing is this : I ne<Hl a trifle, sir, 
To l)uy some wine and meat for my sick wife. 
Tlie doctor's fees, the medicine, and all 



TUE I'LVTOCIUT. 33 

The many little tliiugs that must be paid 
Have swept away the little that I saved, 
.Vnd now — 

West. You thiuk that I shall be iu haste 

To offer 3^ou my pm-se, to be a fool ! 
You're sadly wrong, my friend; times are too 

hard : 
I could not spare a cent just now if 'twere 
To save a soul. In fact, if truth were known 
To all, I sacrificed mj'self for you. 
Instead of li\dng on my revenues 
I put my cash in these confounded mills. 
To give your people work, improve your state. 
To make you moi-e content, to show you aU 
What generous men can do. I did my best. 
And now I'm on the brink of ruin, Jack. 

Jacl\ I thought that everything went very 

well, 
Because at present we work day and night. 

West. The more the pity ! For my sleepless 

nights, 
For all the anguish of a feeling heart, 
I have no profits, and, I fear, no thanks. 

JacJc. Think of my dying wife, my children 

poor ! 
What wi\l become of them if they're bereft 
Of her ? Think— 



34 THE VLVTOCRAT. 

West Yes, I do think, Jack. Of what ? 

I think now of a time six yeai'S ago : 
You borrowed money from a friend of yonrs 
To wed your wife. I said the day would come 
When you would rue that foolish step. You 

laughed. 
Now it has come ! You've hungry cliildren. Jack, 
And a sick wife. Is it my fault or yours? 
With wanton, reckless wish for worldly joys 
You've i-uiued your life — ruined their lives, too. 
Here, look at mc ! You did not see me marry. 
Though I could afford it ere bad luck 
Had made me l)u,y these monej^-eating mills. 

Jaclx. You can deduct it from my wages, l)ut 
For God's sake, sir, give me some money now I 

^Yfst. I pity you, but, as I've plainly said, 
I cannot spare a cent. 

Jacli. 0, wliat a woi-ld ! 

ir^.v/. Be silent! do not dare to curse this 
world ! 
Against me you may turn, but don't I'cbel 
Against the Maker of this l)est of worlds ! 

Jacl'. O sir, you will not drive to desperation 
One who's served you faithfully for years ! 
Grant me this favor, or, l)y God — 

West. Be quiet ! 

[To fiifcriiKj Parte)'] What do you want / 



THE rLVTovnAT. 35 

Porter. The supciiutoiident wants to see yoii, 

and 

Ho says it is on urgent hnsiness, sir. 

West. Then let him enter. [To Jacl<\ Jack, 

3'ou may retire : 

I pardon you tliis mad, uuholy \\Tath. 

It 'htcl'. If my wife dies you shall repent this 

hour ! 

[Exeunt Jacl- and Porter. 

Enter Henry. 

^yest. You saw this fellow Jack come out of 
here : 
As soon as possilile discharge that man. 

Henri/. He is a faithful man ; what will he do ? 
He has no money, and cannot l)e idle. 

We.st. Let him hang himself : it helps his 
\4ews 
Ahout this world among the growling moh ! 
Henri/. Beware, y( )u ini ght 1 )e seahng your own 

doom ! 
We.'^f. No, I'm just sealing my own hanknote- 



Henry. When arguments are scarce, display 

your gold ! 
West. Possession of it is no crime as yet. 
Shall I be osti-acized because I'm rich ? 



3(3 THE rLVTOClUT. 

Henry. Shall they be crowded down because 

thej^'re poor ? 
West. They are oppressors, never the op- 
pressed ; 
They do not care for justice or for law. 

Henry. Unjust they may be, but no more than 
you; 
They may be lawless, but no more than you ; 
Your actions don't inspire respect for law, 
And it is you who breed this lawlessness. 
If law were founded on eternal truth, 
It could be taken as the safest guide ; 
But it knows naught of moral right or wrong — 
In spite of law you've bested brawn and brain. 
West. Ungrateful men alone can speak like 

you. 
Henry. Shades of the dead in^'entors, rise and 
see 
The piincely fortunes made by Plutocrats 
Who sold your brains, and let you go to law 
To gain a trifle of your own creation, 
Then behold your murky paupers' graves — 
The monuments of rich men's gi'atitude, 
The proud mementoes of the mighty law 
Which would have done you justice, had you 

lived 
To follow patiently its tedious course ; 



THE rLVTOCliAT. \\~t 

And then subdue all feelings of revenge, 
But bless and praise this great Plutocracy ! 

West. It gets along without a special bless- 
ing. 

Henry. You're protected ! Who protects your 
men ? 
The government fights only for the rich, 
And leaves the poor to battle for themselves. 
To-day the workingman is at your mercy ! 

West. We take care of him as best we can. 

Hennj. A noble duty to protect the poor ! 
What higher mission can there be in life ? 
You can make thousands happy and content ; 
Youi- life will be a curse if you refuse. 
It's greater to be loved than to rouse hate ! 

^Yest. I do not mind the hate or love of men ; 
I run these mills to please myself alone. 

Hemij. Don't go too far, do not imbitter them, 
Don't try tt) starve them into meek despair. 
If you don't heed the spirit of the times 
Two formidable armies will arise — 
United poverty, united wealth : 
Then- final clashing is a certainty, 
The peaceful struggle will become a war, 
And then the outcome cannot be in doubt. 

^yest. The tj^anny of ignorance is death, 
And may I die before I see its dawai ! 



38 'J'HJ^ PLUTOCILIT. 

Henry. Wlio speaks of twaiiiiy ? You fear 

too nineh ! 
West. Do uot enlighten me as to my men — 
I know them well ; they've taught me how to act. 
Tln'ow but a crumb to the most vicious cur, 
It licks 3'our hand to show its gratitude. 
Not so your noble-minded workingman : 
He is above such silly sentiment. 
With tiger's WTath he tears the proffering hand ; 
He knows no feeling and he shows no thought, 
And strike and boycott are his arguments ! 

Henri/. They learned from you to use such 

arguments. 
West. When they went out on strike some 
years ago, 
And everything was left to waste and rot, 
When thi'ough malevolence a miUion fell, 
They boastingly proclaimed it a great deed. 
If I refuse to pay more tlian agi-eed 
It's called a crime, capitalistic theft ! 

Henri/. Wliat you agree to is compelled from 

them ! 
West. Now, every one is molder of his fate — 
He is the product of his own exertions. 
Persevering genius wiU prevail. 
They want to own what others built, they put 
A premium on uicdioci-ity. 



TEE PLUTOCRAT. 39 

0, Avliat a vision of their future state, 
With Mr. Walking- Delegate as king-, 
That prince of impudence and laziness, 
That most exacting, most despotic lord. 
O, what a travesty on liberty ! 
And liow all brainy men would ever pray 
For the returning- of that glorious reign 
Of Avliat they're pleased to call Plutocracy ! 
Plutocracy ! that feeds the millions who 
Ai'e forging weapons to destroy their peers. 
Plutocracy ! whose freedom's unsurpassed, 
^Vliicli makes the earth a real paradise. 

Henry. For all the allies of the Plutocrats ! 

llV.v/. Yes, money, might, and merit, hand in 
hand : 
Tear them apart, and what will then remain ? 
What lia^'e ambitious men to battle for ? 
Theii' masses, mediocrity, and meanness 
Can't appeal to men like you and me. 

Henri/. It seems that nothing can appeal to 
you. 

West. I want to be the master in my house : 
I own it, no one else, and I will rule ! 
xVnd if they want to strike, I am prepared. 
Woe to the fools who dare to cross my path ! 
Enough of this. Now let's to your affaii-s. 
What may it be, young man ? 



40 THE PLUTOCIUT. 

Henri/. It is of great importance, sii' ; I tiy 
To win my happiness and that of friends. 

West. I'm satisfied you should, my honored 
sir, 
But wliat lias that to do with me, I l^eg ? 
Henri/. More than I wish ! For, if I must 
confess, 
You are the one who's standing in my way. 

West. Be plain : I'm no expert in raving, sir ; 
If you expect a higher salary, 
Just say so, and I'll pay it willingly. 
At present I can't well dispense with you. 

Henry. It is not that ! 'Tis that you want to 
take 
What is to me most beautiful on eai'tli ! 

West. Young man, explain ! 'Twould scai'ce 
be worth my w^hile 
To take from you the little you possess. 
Henry. I have no wealth, but mine's at least a 
heart 
Which aU the money of the world can't buy ! 
West. It is not strange that you possess a 
heart. 
But so do I and all our fellow-men ; 
And as to buying hearts, you can be calm. 

Henry. No, I cannot, for you have plainly 
dared 



THE PLUTOCEAT. 41 

To try and buy, like vulgar money's worth, 
The heart of Alice Field, my bride. 

West. What? Alice Field! Your bride? 

Henri/. Is it so strange ? 

West. Yes, strange indeed, for I am her 
betrothed ! 

Henry. You her betrothed? Don't you pre- 
sume too much ? 
She never loved you, and she never will. 
Her heart is mine, and I won't part with it. 
You're warned : leave her alone ! Gold is not all ! 
If need, we still have laws. 

West. Yes, laws enough, 

And a society that does prevent 
All cruelty to animals and such. 
Wliat have you to complain of ? Pray go on, 
I am the president of that relief. 

Henry. A worthy president ! 

West. I'm glad you think so. But to our own 
case : 
It still remains to see who is to blame — 
I, who wall strew her path with roses fail*, 
Or you, who with youi" love will without fail 
Drag Alice on to darkest misery. 
Is that your love ? I never loved like that ! 

Henry. How can you speak of love, a man hke 

you, 



42 '^IIE I'LITOLRAT. 

With such a withered, selfish, stouy heart ? 
Care not for me : I'm yoimg-, and my whole life 
WiU be devoted to her happiness. 

^Y€st. But you can fail, and, I might add, you 
wiU. 

Henry. Is this a threat ? 

West. Take it for what you please. 

Henry. But I defy you : yom's slie'U never 
be. 
A man like you, long past the prime of life, 
Wants 5'et a youthful angel for his wife ? 

^yest. If I am old, and if my end is near, 
'Tis but a reason more she should be m-iue, 
And more so as 'tis rather doubtful now 
That I'U enjoy sweet angels' company 
Wlien I am dead. If you can check your love 
And wait till then, j-ou'll have a widow fair 
And millions j'et into the bargain. 

Henry. No, 

Not for a minute shall the girl be yours. 
Beware, if jow persist in the attempt. 

West. I must, it is too late, I can't go back ; 
There is too much invested in this thing. 
And now I want to reap the profits due. 

Henry. You heartless wretch! Can you 
expect a girl 
To love a man who — 



THE riA'TOVl!AT. 43 

W'tsf. Is in l()\'e with lier, 

Has uo good looks, but plenty of good cash ? 
Of coui'se I do ! 'TwiJl take some time, I think, 
But I am patient, and you ought to know 
That it takes move than love to be content. 
Ask Mrs. Field. 

Henri/. Don't dare to speak of her ! 

Whate'er she's done, she's but a wonum, weak. 
And you have planned your worst to make her feel 
The great, the cruel pains life has in store 
For those who well deserved its choicest joys. 
She is as high above you — 

West. As the stars. 

You're I'ight, she is a veiy pretty witch, 
Much prettiei' than Alice. Were I you 
I should propose to her. She is still young, 
And — 

Henrij. One word nu)re, try but to speak in jest 
Of her whom I respect, whom I'll protect 
Against such creeping snakes as I deem you — 
Say one word more, and I'll do something, sir. 
That could not well be undone. 

West. I'll be still ; 

But pray keep cool, and let's not come to Ijlows : 
Such exercise does not agree with me. 

Henri/. I see that naught can mo\'e this cynic 
wi'etch ! 



44 THE FLUTOCIUT. 

West. Just what I thought myself ; but be so 
kind 
And move yourself : I'm rather busy, sir — 

Henry. I go, for I cau't hope. 

West. Why not, sir, pray ? 

Why can't you hope — who will prevent you, 

friend ? 
Hope, by all means ; for hope is happiness. 

Henry. I'm done with you ! Henceforth it 
shall be war, 
War to the knife ! 

West. So be it ! To the knife ! 

[Exit Henry. 
All seems against me, but I'm not the man 
To now retreat, to cahnly take defeat 
When I'm so near my aim. I will not tire ; 
I'll fight it out as if it were for life ! 
Is't only young men's privilege to love ? 
Have I not loved "? Did I not meet defeat 
Through one whom I at last ran down ? Ah, yes ! 
Have I not waited through these many years 
To win the daughter when I lost the mother ? 
Jove, I swear that she shall yet be mine ! 
The fool seemed much more ardently in love 
With Ida than with Alice. His quick wi-ath 
Betrayed him plainly. This might be of use : 
At IcMst I'll trv. Tlic chnrms of Id;i Field 



THE I'LVTOCliAT. 45 

Might make an angel fall : I'U watch them both. 
I know she hates me. Aud if all means fail 
The pinch of want can tame the stoutest hearts 
I have no time to lose, I'll go to work 
At once ; there is too much at stake. 

Enter Porter. 

Porter. A lady— Mrs. Field. 
West. Is welcome here 

[Exit Porter. 

Enter Ida. 

^Yest. By Jove ! 'tis really you, my charming 
friend ; 
You come to see me — that's indeed sm'prise ! 
But nowadays aU joys are crowding me. 
If I were vain, without humility, 
I'd think you were in love with me at last. 
'Tis but of rare occurrence that we meet ; 
This is the first time I have seen you here. 

Ida. The fii'st, and, I AviU hope, the last time 
too; 
But I've not come to be tormented. West. 

West. Does love for me torment you '? 

Ida. No, not that ! 

M^est. I'm sorry for it ! What a fool I am ! 
How could I think she was in love mth me 



46 THE rLl'IOCEAr. 

When she has such a young and dashing lad 
Who loves her to complete distraction. 

Ida. Stop ! 

This is too much ! Do not insult me, sii" ! 

West. Wliy, don't you know a Mr. Henry, 
friend ? 

Ida. And if I do ? What can you say of him ? 

West. He only swore to me he loved — admired, 
Adored you, would protect and rescue you. 
He nearly broke my nose for you alone. 
If that's not love, why, tell me, Avhat, then, is '? 

Ida. It is a he, the basest you've yet told. 
In this you can't so easily deceive : 
I know that Henry loves my little gii"l. 

West. I won't say that's a lie, but I do doubt. 
He spoke of Alice too — 'twas tamely, though, 
Whereas for you he was aU fii*e and flame. 
Perhaps this goes to prove he loves you both, 
And rather than lose either he'd take two. 
And travel on to Salt Lake's famous town. 
Tis not a bad idea ! He shows wit ! 
His taste, indeed, is better than his ways. 

Ida. Pray, save the trouble of insulting him ; 
Your labor's lost on me. I did not come 
To hear my friends besmirched and jeered by you ; 
Hut I have conu' to tell you, once for all. 
You must resign aU hope of claindng her. 



THE I'lJTOCnAT. 47 

You eaimot force her to Ix'conie your wife, 
And I would rather die tlian aid such force. 
'Tw^oukl be her death. She does love Henry, and 
No power on earth could put her love in doubt ; 
I've tried it once, but utterly iu vain. 

^yest. That test remains to be more fully 

made : 
There are so uiauy ways wdiich lead to Rome. 
But, verily, I'm sorry for this man ! 
His immorality is truly sad ! 
I must discharge him, bring- him to himself — 
I owe't to you and to my fellow-men. 

Ida. Beware, let Henry stay! For once be 

kind ! 
n>.s/^. Be kind ! Who ever taught me to be 

kind ? 
Has ever auy one been kind to me ? 
From early childhood days I've been abused, 
Been trampled on and kicked, despised and 

shunned. 
For what ? Because I was a nameless waif. 
If kindness could be bred by cruel blows 
I should be kind, luit it cannot, my friend ; 
'Tis mockery to say to me : Be kind ! 

Ida. Go not too far with this; restrain your 

hate. 
West Don't speak of hate ; the word is sinister. 



48 THE rLVTOCBAT. 

Don't call an ugly child 1 )y ugly names : 
Speak rather of my duty — that is plain. 
It is my duty to remove this man. 
Moreover, I must warn all righteous folks 
That such a man is dangerous to employ. 

Ida. Pray, spare him ! Eather vent youi* 
wrath on me, 
And let this pair enjoy their blissful dream. 
West, liv^e a better life, God is not dead ! 
Fear His I'ebuke ! Though He waits patientty, 
If once the measure be too full. He then 
Can strike you but the harder for your sins. 

^Yest. I don't believe my measure to be fuU ; 
It can still hold a goodly di'auglit, I think : 
If it runs over through a fault of mine, 
I've been a blockhead, and I'U humbly bow 
To whatsoever is liy Fate decreed. 
But I feel very well just now, my dear, 
In expectation of my happiness. 
I am quite sure you will not cross my path. 
For if you help this wild and daring man 
You are in danger too ; my righteous duty 
Then extends to you and yours as weU. 
And, verily, 'twoiild be a lasting shame 
When two such beauties had to beg for alms. 
May Heaven but tarn a thing so sad to see. 

Ida. You know too well my vulnerable point ! 



THE PL r rod! AT. 49 

You know it is not for myself I fear ; 

You know you hurt me most iu those I love ; 

You know it, scoundrel, far too well ; you use 

The fact to further all 3'our wicked schemes. 

May God forgive, but I cannot forgive — 

I can't suppress my hate, 'twill choke me hei'e ! 

I must give vent to it, and if by words 

I could now kill you, 'twould be joy for me 

Were I for years to suffer and repent. 

Ah, my poor Alice, must it come to that f 

God ! canst Thou leave us in this demon's grasp ? 

If we are tried on earth so hard, O Lord, 

Then even heaven itself cannot console. 

West. How Ijeautif 111, how ravishingly grand ! 
I never saw such beauty in my hfe ! 
You are sublime, an angel still in -wTath ! 
And if, then, Alice loves this raving fool, 
I'll let them marry, if you'll be my wife. 

Ida. At this price, no ! For I would rather die 
Than marry you ! I loathe you so. 

West. You do ? 

I then shall stick to Alice, if I must : 
Then you're at least my handsome, doting mother, 
Wlio will have me for a lo\dng son. 
As for that coy, reluctant love of hers, 
I think that I can win it quite alone 
If you will promise not to interfere 



50 TUE PLVTOCIiAT. 

And not to tell licr all about the past. 

I do not need your help — I'm strong" enough, 

And know the arts of little love-affairs. 

Ida. It tears my heart. I promise to obey ; 
But if you liarm a hair on Henry's head 
You will repent the hour — for in that boy 
I see a manly faith, a nol>le soul. 
I'd find no rest if any harm met him. 

Wesi. I'll harm no hair on your dear Henry's 
head, 

no, not one ! Though weU he'd spare one hair. 
Don't be afraid, I ^^'ill not pluck his hair : 
Except for him and you it has no value. 

Ida. Wicked monster, how I hate you now ! 
More than I ever hated you before ; 
And more than you and all on earth can hate ! 
But 'tis in vain ; therefore I go and leave 
My curse tenthousandfold with you ! 

West. A single hearty one will do, my dear; 
If not, relieve yourself, do not mind me. 

1 am forgiving — you ought to foi'give, 
Or you will go to the fifth steep in heU, 
As sings the poet of infernal deeps. 

[Exit Ida. 
Ah, what a woman ! What a inarvelous gem ! 
"Were all like her, I could admire the sex ! 
I've hated her, and she deserved my liate ; 



THE J'LITOCIUT. 51 

But had I hated her as she believes, 

She wouhl not ])e aiuoiig- the living now. 

With all my fiery hate I've loved her wildly — 

Whieh the most, the devil only knows ; 

Yet be it what it may, be't love or hate. 

She is my only heiress ; when I'm dead 

My gold may heal the wounds which hate iu- 

fliets. 
And it is hers by that which fools call right. 
Her husband was my partner : at the start 
He had the money, I, experience ; 
Before he died the tables were just turned, 
He had experience, I had the rest. 

[Exit Wrsf. 

Scene III. A Farfori/ Yard 

Henry. Yes, Jack, 'tis true ! You are to be 
discharged. 
But I will try my best to keep you here. 
Still, in the meantime, look for othei' work. 
He would not listen to my warm remonstrance. 
All my words in your behalf were lost. 

Jacl-. Then I can't even hope for other work. 
What did he tell yon ? 

He)!)'!/. Jack, leave that untold. 

Jack. But why not speak ? I shan't expect too 
mucli : 



52 'THE I'LVTOCUAT. 

Tell nie the truth ; perhaps it might relieve 
To know the worst that can be said of me. 

Henry. Well, Jack, he said that you might 
hang yourself — 
Illustrate thus your views about this world 
Among the growling mob ! 

Jacl'. I thought as much. 

A pleasant man, a kind of humorist. 
So I should hang myself — a good advice : 
The man is right, it's not a bad idea. 

Heiir)/. I tell you this for your own good, 
friend Jack, 
To show you there's no hope of help from him. 
You know I have no power to keep you here ; 
I am a slave myself as much as you. 
If I could help you, Jack, it should be done, 
But I won't stay here longer than yourself. 
I may be forced to leave this place to-day ; 
And willingly my steps shall tm-n, for here. 
Where wrong and evil gain the victory, 
Is no good place for honest, feeling men. 
Yet don't despair, and hope for better days ! 

Jacl\ I won't despair. There must be yet a 
God. 
Good-bye ! [Exit Jacl\ 

Henry. Unhappy Jack ! Unhappy man ! 
Oppressed, enslaved, and toiUng all your life — 



THE I'LlTUCliAT. f,;} 

Oue long-continued struggle for your bread. 
And still the want of that disturbs your sleep, 
And fills your soul with bitter mental woe. 
Your independence is a flimsy sham ! 
Is this the much-blessed freedom you enjoy ? 
Cursed liberty, this liberty — to die ! 



ACT III. 

Scene I. Room in Mrs. FielcVs House. 

Ida. I knew your efforts would most surely 
fail; 
And I have had not more success than you. 
West promised nothing more than that he would 
Spare me the painful task of helping him. 
I won't be sacrificed, won't marry one 
Who has destroyed and wrecked my happy home. 

Henry. Is he still there to plague you with his 
love ? 
Is he still there to lift his eyes to you ? 
Let him but try to yet prolong the strife, 
And he shall fight with me for life or death. 
Across my body lies the way to you ; 
No other man shall ever own your heart ! 

lila. This tone, sir — God, what are the words 
I hear? 



54 THE rLUTOCh'AT. 

Heii)'!/. I know you liatc liim ; if yoii say the 
word 
I'll kill him. 

Ida. You can talk of murder, then ? 

O, think of heaven ; may (rod forgive you, sir ! 

Nf'iiri/. With y<m is heaven, without you^ — hell ! 
For (me emljrace, for one touch of your lips. 
I'd willino'ly forego eternity ! 

Ida. Sii', you are mad ! 

Henri/. Yes, and I know I'm mad. 

But is not our whole life an insane dream ? 
What do we live for if 'tis not for joy? 
From birth till death we hunt for paradise. 
And mine, I think, I've found in you at last ! 

[Enihrace^ Ida. 

Ida. O, leave me, leave me, that I may forgive 
Wliile I still can. I must not, will not hate, 
And only pity stirs within my l)reast. 

Henv)/. Do I need pity ? Do not pity me. 
No, no ! For I now hold you in my arms ! 
No future joy or terroi* moves me now : 
The cup of joy has touched my eager lips ; 
Then let me drink it, drink it to the dregs, 
And T will gladly die! 

Ida. Now leave me, leave me, or I'll cry for 
help. 
If words can't nu)ve vou. think of Alice! 



THE VLUTOCEAT. 55 

Henry. [Releasing her] All! 

What have I done in inadnian recklessness ? 
Forgiving' guardian angel, help me, help ! 
To think I should so shamelessly betray 
The confidence of one so sweet and pure ! 
In passion I have torn the flower I held, 
And now, too late, there is no power to save ! 

[Rushes out of the room. 

Ida. O, wherefore was I born f What fate is 
mine ? 
Why did this deadly beauty come to me ? 
Why was I made unwillingly a tool 
Of dire destruction ? O, thou much-prized gift, 
What hast thou wi'ought to me but miseiy 
And endless woe ? Unruly passions hast 
Thou kindled in men's breasts, hast l)lindly led 
Them to dread deeds, or even crime, for me ! 
fatal beauty ! Is this all thou gainest ? 
Then be cursed by me, be cursed and cursed ! 

Enter West. 

West. Why, my fair friend, in tears again so 
soon 1 
Your well of weeping overflows to-day. 
Now, Ida, do not weep, it spoils your looks. 
And no admirer of your matchless charms 
Would like to see such sad calamitv. 



56 THE PLUTOCRAT. 

Ida. If weeping only could destroy the spell, 
I might be tempted to unceasing tears. 
Once more my fatal gift has wrought its worst 
In one who but for this was truly good ; 
And though he's wi'onged us both, I pardon him — 
I only pray that he may yet return 
To that true love by which he was inspu'ed. 
Wed. Ah ! then what I foretold has come to 

pass. 
Now tell me : was I wrong in what I said ? 
Ida. I never thought of it, should never 

doubt 
But for this scene. It is a fearful truth. 
For God's sake, don't let Alice know this, West, 
Or I shall teU her of yom* life and deeds. 

West. No fear of that ; keep but your promise, 

dear. 
I knew 'twould come, I hardly ever err. 
I know my men — but one unguarded word 
Reveals to me their deepest, inmost thoughts. 
Reveals their strength and all their weakness too. 
To this I owe my great success in hfe : 
It is a precious gift, my stock in trade. 
That he's out of the way to me, I vow, 
Is tidings of a, truly welcome kind. 

Idd. No doubt of that ; I know that you hate 

him. 



THE FLUTOCBAT. 57 

West. I hate him f No, I am iu love with him. 
Did I not call him fool, and has he not 
But proved himself quite worthy of the name ? 
Hate him ? Wliat nonsense ! It would be too 

much 
To hate all those who might be in my way. 
I only can despise them, but not hate ; 
And if I trample over hearts or heads, 
'Tis but as if I trample over worms. 
For hatred never moves me to rebuke. 
Hated I have but one. You are the one. 
And you I never could despise. 

Ida. My thanks. 

Yes, many thanks, that even you admit 
You've found in me one worthy of your hate. 
This is, indeed, a flattering remark. 
And truly gratifying to my heart. 
Your haughty tone cannot deceive me, West, 
You're void of every noble thought or wish. 
I am a woman with a tender heart — 
Could never look unmoved on others' pains. 
West. Yes, yes, you have a tender heart, my 

dear ; 
Especially does it soften for this youth. 
To see me suffer would not give you pain. 
Ida. Why should I wince to see a scoundrel 

"^^^•ith(' ? 



58 THE rLVTOCRAT. 

^Yest. That's right, my friend, U-t's phiy to the 
old tune, 
Else we might grow too sentimental ; yet 
If I have been your devil, you were mine, 
With all your angel's face and angel's form. 
That which I am I am through you. 

Ida. That stab 

You've given me before ; but 3'ou are wrong : 
Tliis cowardly excuse yom- meanness shows ; 
For I believe that love ennobles men, 
And you are just the opposite of all 
That I call noble in the sterner sex. 

West. Perhaps I am, your standard is so high. 
But what's that now '? We'll let bygones be gone. 
I came to see my gii-l ; I came to win 
Her for my wife. Where is our darling pet ? 

Ida. Then you will win my child without my 
help ? 
In faith, it makes me laugh to think of it. 
She is strong proof against your golden rain, 
For gifts and honeyed words can't buy her heart. 

West. Who told you, then, that I would buy 
with gifts ? 

Ida. Perhaps you may rely on other charms. 
But I confess they have not yet appeared. 

West. Yes, they were lost on you, 'tis l)ut too 
true. 



THE I'LUTOCIUT. 5j) 

Why do you tliiuk they must be k)st on her? 

Ida. I only thiuk that even you grow childish. 
Luek attend you ; may you win the game. 
But take good eare, do not flame up in love : 
The heavenly fire might Ijurn your brittle heai't ! 

West. Pray save your laugh till you have seen 
the end, 
And do not be too playfulh' inclined, 
Lest malice yet might l)ear ill fruit. Take care ! 

Where shall I find my Alice ? 

1(1(1. While we spoke 

I heard her sing : she must be in the house. 

West. Then I will go and find out where she is, 
And let us see who'll win the weighty war. 

[Exit West 

Ida. How can he win her? Surely not by 
force. 
To mention what he heard he dares not do, 
And if he did he'll find there no belief. 
Yet I did wrong to thus excite his wrath ; 
He wore an uglv smile when now he left. 
But let us hope the best. These crushing scenes 
Have filled my cup of sorrow to the l)rim. 
May HeaA'en reveal the way to save the lad, 
Reveal the way to save my child and him. 

[Uxit Ida. 



(50 THE FLUTOCBJI. 



Scene II. Musk-room in Mrs. Field's House. 

Alice. [Singing] 

O, I am as liappy 

As birds are in spving ; 
I delight to be merry, 

I gambol and sing. 

And why not be merry ? 

The world is so fair. 
Begone every dark look, 

Begone every care ! 

The rain may bestrew ns. 

But the clouds must soon part ; 

The world is all sunlight. 
For Love's in my heart. 

Enter West. 

West. You're always merry, Alice, and why 
not? 
Why should we be morose, to all a plague. 
While Life with all its untold charms and joys 
Still smiles on us ? Wliy should we see the dark 
Wliere in reality all is but light 
And happiness ? Wherefore complain and sigh ? 



THE rLUTOCRAT. Ql 

Let others piue iu feigned, unreal grief, 
But let us sing, let us be always gay. 

AJicc. So let it be, dear uncle ; it is right 
That we should sing while we ai-e happy yet ; 
And let us wish to every one good-luck : 
Arid down with every sorrow. Let us pray 
That all the world be blessed as we are blessed. 

West. So be it. Let us wish good-luck and 
cheer 
To all with grief oppressed ; and thou, sweet Love, 
Wlio rules supreme the vast domain of life, 
To thee we bow, to thee, a god, we sing. 

Alice. 0, how I pity those who do not love, 
And are not hjved by loved ones in return, 
For they are poor if they were doubly rich. 
How rich I am in love, how rich, how rich, 
And loved by all. 

West. And not the least by me. 

Alice. And I am truly thankful for it, uncle ; 
So wall mother be, for she loves all 
Who love me and were kind to me in school. 
How I lov(^ her, that I can only feel. 
And never tell. 

West. In that, my dear, you're right. 

If ever life's dark clouds should cross your path, 
And if in hours of trial courage fails, 
If you ciy loud to God to send relief, 



62 THE rLVTOCRAT. 

To lielp you iu 3'our houi'.s of agoii}^, 

Look to your motlier then — in lier you'll find 

More love and help thau all the angels give. 

Alice. Dear uncle, I believe you. It is so. 

West. I will not make you sad, my pet, not 
now. 
But you cannot requite her faithful love ; 
No sacrifice of yours can pay the debt, 
That debt is over gi'eat. She's suffered much, 
But out of all she came a victor brave. 
And all for you. I will not now recount ; 
It takes too long, and makes me shake with 
pain. 

Alice. What do you mean, dear uncle? 

^Yest. Let it rest. 

My dearest child ; let that rest undisturbed 
Deep in my breast. 'Tis best. And, so God help, 
'Tis dead forevermore, not to revive. 
Therefore, my dear, don't speak of it to hei', 
But help to make her all forget by love. 

Alice. To do this, uncle, shall now be my aim, 
And I am thankfid that I know of this. 

^Ved. I know your heart, and knew that it 
would pronqit 
To help me to your mother's happiness. 
That is one reason why I tell this tale 
Of sufferhig and woe. Her fate is mine. 



THE riLTOCIUT. 63 

My life I have devoted to her g'ood, 

Her sorrows have been iiiiiie, and, so God help, 

Her jo3's shall yet l)e mine. 

Alice. Yon are too kind ! 

What a dear friend yon've ever been to ns. 

[Kisses Wesi. 

^Yest. Nothing- of me, I pray yon ; leave me 
ont. 
What I have done was done with cheerfnl heart : 
Nothing of me, let that not trouble you. 
I always stood alone in this wide world, 
And shall thus to my end stand quite alone, 
A solitary tree, bent down by grief. 
But such is life ; for others mine is spent. 
And never did I win a smile from love. 
Yet I'm content, for I have love deserved • 
If 'twas denied 'twas hard, but — let it be. 

Alice. And were you loved by none, you're 
loved by me. [Kisses West 

West. That is my only consolation, child. 
I have much loved. I have l^een very selfish. 
Once I thought I could possess the one 
Who has been life to me — your mother, dear. 
It could not be : she loved another man, 
And she was right. I yielded cheerfully. 
For, as it seems, I was not born for love. 
Love is a gift of Heaven, cannot be bought. 



G4 TJJi^ I'LVTOCRAl. 

It must be freely given to have worth. 
This ])oou has been denied to me. 

Alice. O uo ! 

My nucle dear, my love is not enforced. 

[/m.s'p.s- West. 

HV.y/. Why do I speak of tliatf And why 
complain 1 
Am I not acting like a tiresome prattler ? 
Pray excnse me, dear, and to retm'n : 
Your mother married ; I stood watching her, 
And washed her all the happiness on earth. 
But even that has been denied to me — 
To find my happiness recast in hers. 
Her husband left her friendless ami alone, 
And never saw his wife or child again. 

Alice. My poor, unhappy, patient mother ! 

^yest. Yes, 

For poor she was : uo friend to give her help. 
And left to face the world with her weak child — 
Aloiu' to fight the battle of this life. 
It was a fearful sight, hard to behold. 
No hope was dawning on her tear-dimmed eyes, 
But she looked up to Him, and Heaven befriended. 
I was watching her with loving eye. 
O, what a joy to me to lia\'e the means 
To banish care and all the fears of want ! 
Her mental grief I never could a])pease ; 



THE I'LCTOCRAT. 05 

Oft have I tried, l)iit I have tried in vain, 
And not to nie this boon was to be sent. 
Bnt I beheve that she'll be hai'py yet, 
And that at last her fearful trials end. 
O, how I wish her this time better luck ! 
Alice. Then 'tis to you we owe all that we 

have. 
0, was there ever such a generous soul 
As yours, my dearest, dearest Uncle West ! 
Can any love of mine wipe out such debts ? 

[Kisses West. 
West Nothing of me, my child. Be quite 

assured 
'Tis only for your mother's sake I speak, 
To show you how she has deserved your love. 
But how it gladdens my old foolish heart, 
To feel quite sure that she'll be happy yet, 
That she has found a man whom she can love. 
Alice. You speak in riddles, uncle. Tell me 

aU. 
My mother said no word about a lover, 
Gave no hint aljout a marriage. 

West. Has never hint been given? That is 

strange ! 
But O, I see, she'll take you by surprise. 
Or it may be she does not like to tell — 
It might not prove entirely welcome news. 



QQ THE rU'TOCllAT. 

Alice. Yes, tliat might be the case; I can see 
tliat ; 
But nothing ever couhl liurt me that might 
Give her some happiness. If this be true, 
I wish her all the good which life can grant. 

^Yesi. Of course 'tis true, your mother told me 
so. 
I have no doubt they will be happy, and 
In their joy I shall find my happiness. 
Then I can die in peace, then is my aim 
Attained. In truth, T have not lived in vain. 

Alice. O, how sublime, how noljly true you 
are ! 
But who is he that steals my mother's hand f 

^Yest. A worthy, nol)le, honest, manly man : 
In everything the acme of perfection. 
True as gold — I've sounded him myself. 
O, had he not been worthy of her love, 
I should not be so glad ; I'd have to blame 
]\Iyself forevei'more. But I am sui'e 
They are the best matched pair I ever saw. 

Alice. Who is this happy man ? Do not delay. 
Are you afraid ? Wliy not divulge his name ? 

^Yest. You know him Avell, my little pet. This 
man 
Is your own friend as weU, he told me so. 
And von'U be glad to have him for a father. 



THE I'LL roc I! AT. (j7 

Alice. No, I do not know liini, 'tis too bad. 
I'm mystified. Don't keep me in suspense ! 

West. But you know Henry, your old friend 
and playmate. 

Alice. He! Is he the man of whom you speak? 
It cannot be ! O God, it cannot l)e ! 

West. Darling, you frighten me ! Yes, it is he. 
But what is that to us ? 

Alice. You ask me what ? 

O God, it cannot be, it cannot be ! 
He and my mother ! No, it cannot be ! 
Speak, uncle, speak, it cannot be ! No, no ! 

West. It is the truth. But, child, what do you 
care? 
You make me feel quite wretched ; truth, you do. 

Alice. It cannot be, O, say, it cannot be ! 
He is my lover, he belongs to me, 
To me alone — to me l)elongs his heart, 
And I alone hav(» sacred rights in him. 

uncle, teU me ! Speak ! It cannot be ! 

^yest. Wliat have I done ? unhappy wretch I 
am ! 
Tills man your lover ? Heaven forgive my act ! 

1 can't forgive myself — a dreadful thing ! 

O God ! Why did I speak ? What have I done ? 
My child, my darling, can you pardon me ? 
What I have done, I did mtli good intent ; 



68 THE PLUTOCBAT. 

But I must always fail. O, mother poor, 

This last stroke is your death-blow, nothing 

less ! 
But here I swear I will revenge you both. 
He'll pay this with his life, the traitor he ! 
'Tis now an eye for eye, and tooth for tooth. 
Now all my dreams of happiness are gone, 
And grief will bend me down. I am a wi'eck ! 
Unhappy child ! But thrice unhappy mother ! 
God, forgive the sin ! I must be off ! 
I'U km him— 

Alice. No, you shall not take his life. 

No, uncle, stay. Stay, do not make it worse, 
And leave me not in my heart's agony, 
But counsel me, and tell me what to do. 
O, my poor heart, it is thy doom to break ! 
Thou canst not long endure such raging pain. 
It is too hard — this sudden leap from heaven 
Into the depths of dark despair and woe ! 
O poor, O foolish heart ! Why dost rel)el 
Against thy fate? Why wilt thou In-enk with 

grief? 
Be calm, be calm as if in death ! Be calm ! 
So all my hopes are buried in despair: 
So young, so full of life, and so unhappy ! 
Robbed of all, of all that I have cherished. 
God ! it is too hard ! It is too hard ! 



TUE I'LUTOCIUT. 09 

West. Despaii'ing- grief, biu'st forth ! Break 
all the bonds ! 
Cry up to Heaven for but one ray of hope. 
Alas, there is no hope ! 'Tis done, 'tis done ! 
My darling, do not weep, do not despair, 
Or you will break my acliing heart in two. 
You are still j^oung-, life ^vill yet heal your wounds ; 
But when I think of her who bore you, child, 
Then I am lost. For her I fear the worst ; 
For her 'twill be heart-rending ag.ony. 
Give her this wound with all the wounds she 

bears, 
And it will surely kill her. Think of this. 
O, had I but the \^Tetcli here in my hands, 
I'd tear his lying heart out of his breast. 
Rage overpowers me — I'll look for him. 

Alice. No, uncle, do not harm him, but stay 
here. 
Let him alone : his heart has been misled. 
And Where's the man who wiU not love my mother. 
Can resist her charming gentleness 
And her angelic beauty ? He's not born. 
Let him be happy if he can be so. 
Now I can understand his suUen grief. 
He felt his wrong, O, poor, poor boy ! 

West. Withal 

Could you excuse him still ? How strange this is ! 



70 lilJ^ rLUTOClLiT. 

Don't think yoiu* mother did the mischief, givl. 
By all the powers in heaven and on this earth, 
I swear that she is innocent of all ! 
Do not blame her — 

Alice. Blame her"? What do yon think f 

Shonld I descend to give my mother hlame ! 
If she had told me all when I arrived 
'Twonld have l^een better ; bnt I let that pass. 
Why should she not admii-e him — him so good ? 
Yet, I can see 'twas he who lost himself. 
I know" his sudden passions, his wild love 
For all that's lieautiful, for all that's gi-eat. 
I pardon him. May they be happy long. 
I will resign, and see them still as one, 
Then I will die. 

West. Say not that word, my child. 

A noble soul ! You've conquered your own heart. 
You've won the greatest battle ever fought. 
You shall not die ! Think but of me, my jtet, 
Whose only hope, whose only joy you are. 
A common grief has bound us in one bond, 
And I will try to keep the ti'ust Clod gave. 
I'll \>Q your father, mother, husl)and — all ! 

Alice. I only say I thank you, uncle dear ; 
Pray show me now the way, and show me light. 
I cannot break the subject to them now. 
How, uncle, shall T meet them after this? 



THE I'LlTOriLlT. 71 

West. Be quiet, and conceal your heart's fierce 
paiu. 
Dou't speak about the dreadful case to them — 
It is too painful for both sides, my dear — 
And leave the rest to me. We'll fly to Europe 
On the swiftest ship that rides the seas : 
Among new men, among new scenery 
You'll be my merry little pet again. 

Alice. Yoiw pet I'll be, but merry — no, not 
that. 

West. O, we shall see. I shall dispel the cloud 
That darkens now your life. You shall revive. 

Alice. No, uncle, I am wrecked, and ruin stares 
Me in the face. I am the shadow only 
Of ni}' former self. 

We.st. All this wiU change. 

You are exhausted ; tears stand in yoiu* eyes. 
Stay in your i-oom and think of me, my dear. 
Remember that you are my all ; weep not. 
Do as I tell you. Seek your strength in Heaven. 

Alice. Yes, uncle, I'll retire : I feel so cold, 
My heart is chilled, as if the arms of death 
Had stretched themselves about me, and held fast. 
heart, heart, why wilt thou bi-eak with grief ? 
Be calm, be icy calm ! [Exit Alice. 

We.st 'Tis done at last. 

Tlie farce is out, and I am glad indeed ; 



72 THE FLU TO (I! jr. 

But uever have I had a liarder task. 

It is a risky game, but 111 succeed. 

So forward, then, retreat is now cut off. 

Thus far my part has been well played, 'tis true, 

But I can't rest, there is yet much to do 

Till all is gained, tiU Alice is my wife. 

'Twas hard, I must confess, to watch the blow. 

I had no other means to gain my end. 

I'll win her heart, and not alone her hand. 

[Exit West. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. A Tiiblic Hall. 

George. Friends, feUow- workmen : we are here 
to-night 
To organize and to devise a plan 
To better, if we can, our hapless state. 
We all know "West, we all know what he is : 
He'd let us starve and die without regret 
So long as he might multiply his dollars. 
Well we know that words are lost on him. 
And we must urge by deeds what words can't do. 
It is but justice, friends, for which we fight, 
And but liy laA\^ul means we'll win our right — 
A right that's born with every human soul. 



THE FLUrOCliAT. 73 

A right eternal, tliat entitles ns 
At least to ample clothes and ample food. 
We claim the right to work for decent pay. 
PatricJi. Claim everything, and then get all 

you can. 
Peter. Before we start, let ns invoke God's aid. 
He is almighty : may He guide us right. 

Several worTiingmen. Yes, may God help us! 
Ask His mighty aid 
To stir West's soul, awake liis sleeping con- 
science. 
PairicTi. 'Faith, boys, look for nary soul in 
West ; 
I guess his soul is in Ms money-bag. 

Paul. A soul so heavy, with so great a weight, 
Is never likely to fly up to heaven. 

George. This is no time to jest: we have a 
task. 
We best attain our aim by well-planned strikes ; 
The risk is great, but nothing else can help. 
If strike we do, let's strike his money-bag — 
In other parts we cannot hurt our man. 

Fred. To strike is well, but whereon shall we 

live ? 
George. In times of peace we must prepare for 
war, 
And pubhc sympathy will greatly aid. 



74 THE rLl'TOLRAT. 

Charles. Don't coiiut on public sympathy, good 
friend ; 
'Tis well enough, but it will buy no bread. 
What does West care for public sympathy, 
The heart- and soid-devouring glutton ! He 
Can let the public speak without restraint. 
And laughs at us, scorns pul >lic sentiment. 

George. Naught but united action makes us 
strong • 
United, we can battle without help. 

Enter several Workingmen irifh Hexry. 

Ifen'coiiiers. We looked for Mr. Henry, l)rought 
him here, 
To ask for his advice. We know his grit. 
He'll tell us which is best — join with the Knights 
Or bring our forces to the Labor Union. 

Henry. I'm not in a mood to hear your tallv — 
I am disgusted with yoiu* faction fights ; 
And what advice can you expect from one 
Whose misery is greater than your own 1 
Friends, let me go. 

Worlingnien. O, stay and give us help ! 

You always let us feel your sympathy. 

Henri/. Show me the way to help you in your 
plight. 
Your fight is nianfid, it is for the right ; 



THE riAioviLiT. 75 

But wlu'i'e's the propliet who will lead you on, 

Who eau unite conflicting elements 

And warring- factions in your open camp f 

O, were you not so easily misled 

By heartless scoundrels taking your last cent, 

To lead a life of luxury and shame — 

The prostitutes of a most noble cause, 

Who but tear down what better men have built. 

Incite to violence and open crime. 

Who speak of progress, but do all they can 

To keep you wlu^-e you are. They know" too well 

That poverty and X)titience are not twins. 

Like poverty and crime. But who can wait 

When actual want is stariug in his face? 

Give me the man who is no demagogue. 

The patriot, the true American, 

A\nio will devote his whole life to your cause ; 

The man firm in adversity and luck, 

The iron-willed giant of intellect, 

Who can unite the toilers of the land, 

And dow^i an arrogant Plutocracy ; 

The man who's just to all, who serves the right 

For all his fellow-men, not for one class — 

(rive me the man, and I will follow him, 

Will greet him as the great nud true Messiah. 

Once I dreamt that I could ].)e the man. 

It should not be, it was not given me : 



76 THE I'LL'TOCIUT. 

'Twas but a dream, and that is over now — 
My com-se i.s i-un, my life is lived for naught. 

WorMngmen. Why can't you be the leader in 
our fight I 

Henry. It is too late, I fear, 'tis of no use : 
Plutocracy will soon destroy itself. 
The sturdy farmer and the artisan 
Will rise in anger and will crush the Moloch. 
Now's your time, your opportunity, 
To help the mighty cause ; if it is lost, 
A century might bring no other chance. 
The money-power is like one solid rock : 
Why can't you have a federation, men f 
Wliate'er you do, unite, friends, if you can. 
Decry all factions ; see but workingmen. 

WorMngmen. Hurrah for him ! for he is always 
right. 
Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 

[Exit Henry. 

Enter Jack. 

Paul. See, there conies Jack. Great heavens ! 
see how he looks ! 
Jack, what's the news, my boy? How is your 

wife? 
I hope she's well. 

Jarl; O yes. she is (|nite well. 



TUE I'LUIOCRAT. 77 

No hunger more, uo cold : she's still and dead. 
All this I owe to great, to generous West. 
He has discharged me too — another blow. 
Perhaps he saw that I am getting old. 
And more than all, he gave me good advice : 
He thought to end my worldly cares at once. 
And set a good example to you, bo3^s, 
'Twould be advisable to hang myself. 
No doubt he's right. Is he not always right ? 
WorMngmen. That is too much ! With all his 

misery 
To mock him heartlessly in dire distress ! 

Jacli. Is it too much "? It reaUy is too much. 
It must be so, if even you protest — 
You, who're contented with your paltry bread. 
Who've lived in chains from early childliood's 

days, 
Who hardly feel the fetters if not want 
Reminds you but too frequently of them. 
And is it then too much ? Why is't too much ? 
Have we a right to live! No, he is right. 
He knows too well the people whom he owns. 
He knows they're slaves and have a slavish mind. 
Are only good for meanest drudgery. 
Of freedom they know but the name, and not 
The meaning. Yes, he's quite right to down us. 
How can a man respect his ser^^le slaves? 



78 THE rLVTOCRAr. 

He gave me good advice : I'll hang myself ; 

But I "v^dll tie the rope in such a way 

That his neck will be caught in the same sling. 

Paul. Remember, Jack, that you have childi"en. 

Jach. Yes. 

We have a poorhouse, have we not ? and there 
They're better off than they are now with me. 
Poor people's cliildren are but born, it seems, 
To fill these prisons with a motley crowd. 
But what is left to them ? Their sense of honor, 
Once awake, is kiUed in eai-liest youth. 
It is the wisdom of our governance 
That rogues and criminals are cared for, and 
That honest workingmen are left to starve ! 

Feter. We feel with you ; but this is not the 
hour 
To think of your revenge : leave that to Clod. 
We aU look up to Him. We suffer all. 
Heaven is our last, sole hope when all hopes fail. 
And in the end, what is all woi-ldly wealth? 
'Tis naught, and can't redeem us. For our pain 
God will reward us — He is merciful. 

Jaclx. If thei'e's a God, and He can see such 
things, 
Then show me l)ut Ilis love, .show nu'rcy now. 
If He creates us but t(^ let us feel 
The deepest'depth of human misery, 



THE I'LvrovRAr. 79 

Destroys us then just like a wooden toy, 

And if this earth is His gTeat masterpiece, 

I have enough of Heaven. Yes, I've enough. 

My poor dead wife and all my children sad 

Cry for revenge ! In Heaven they found no 

ear. 
But let it be. At least they'll find it here. 

Fetev. Yon lose your reason, Jack : try to be 

calm. 
May God forgive you, you have greatly sinned. 
Workiwjuien. But it is true, this is a wicked 

world. 
George. Ye fools, do not complain about this 

world. 
It is our will, our brutal ignorance, 
That makes it Avhat it is. We are to blame. 
We made it bad ; and we shall make it worse, 
If we're arrayed here in continual strife 
Against ourselves, wage war against oui' friends ; 
We'll make it worse, if, in our blind career, 
Low, petty jealousies and selfishness 
Prevent connected work, prevent success. 
Our enemies form one united host, 
And therein lies their crushing force and might. 
If we will only follow where they lead. 
We shall be stronger : we outnumber them, 
And we shall be a power in our land. 



80 THE PLUTOCL'AT. 

Organization is the magic wand 

That forms our strength, insni'es onr victory. 

No need of \dolence if we unite ; 

Then right will be our only force and strength, 

'Twill be respected if upheld by all. 

If we are one, both heart and soul, 

Stand firmly all for one and one for all. 

Then, friends, and not before that joyous hoiu'. 

Will dawn the morning of a bettei' day. 

We may not see it, but our children will. 

Let's stand together, let us organize. 

It is a glorions goal we're fighting for, 

And we can reach it if we only will. 

Worli'uujmen. Hurrah ! He's right. We'U 

form a mighty league ; 
And if West still will give no higher pay, 
We'll cease to work, we'll strike, and we shall win. 
Jacl'. Ye cowards ! Strike and starve — 

That is your doom. 
Delay till death shall strike! Wait till to- 

mori'ow — 
Let me strike to-day. [Exit 'Jacl-. 

Paid. Just let him go 

Until his anger shaU be cooled, poor Jack. 
He's raving now ; his reason will return, 
And may his peace of mind be soon restored. 
'Twould be sheer madness to now keep him here. 



THE I'HTOCL'AT. 8l 

George. Then let's go lioiiie, and may Clod grant 
success, 
And that He will. A cause as just as ours 
Is always sure to win. 

AIL It ought to win, 

And it shall win ! It cannot meet defeat. 
And till the victory is won by right 
Be this our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 

[Exeunt WorMngmen. 

Scene II. Room in Mrs. Field's House. 

Ida. What has resulted of your wooing siege ? 

West. That I am disappointed, I confess. 
But Rome was not erected in one day, 
And I have patience : you wiU witness that. 

Ida. I do know something of your qualities, 
Of what you have and what now you have not. 

West. Yes, yes, you know it, and I know it too : 
I have nuich money, but I have not you. 

Ida. And never will, thank God ! 

West. Then, hoj)e, farewell ! 

Ida. But tell me what she said. 

West. Not very much. 

Wliat said she ? Well, she called me uncle dear, 
And she knows well that I am no such man. 

Ida. And how did you begiu f 

West. That's hard to say. 



82 TUE I'LUTOCRAT. 

I ljal)ljle(l of the s^'inpatliy of souls, 

Platonic love, and other nonsense too. 

I almost fear she did not understand. 

I'm hardly just the man for making love. 

And ti'uly, twice I l)lnshed ; but if I'm home, 

rU learn my part with utmost diligence. 

And you, my dear, might give me a slight hint 

How best to win a woman's fickle lieai't. 

I know that most are bought by boundless wealth, 

But you and Alice are another kind. 

In you I found my first and great rebuff. 

But haply you are two exceptions, not 

The rule. 

Ida. If tliis be true, the moral is. 
You'd better cease j^our wooing, leave us here 
To love and hate as we see fit to do. 

^Vest. O, you do that without my leave, my 
dear ; 
I merely try to lead 3'ou on to one 
Who most deserves undying — 

Ida. Love or hate ? 

West. Is that so difficult to say, my friend ? 
With equal reasons both for love and hate, 
There is a doubt — 'tis for love's benefit. 
Therefore I say, one Avho deserves your love. 

Ida. You say so, but I don't. Enough of that. 
Now tell me. did vou mention Henrv's name ? 



THE rUTOiUAT. 83 

West. Not ouce, my dear. T liardly tliouglit 
of him, 
Or, rather, kept in mind your gentle threat 
To tell our Alice some unpleasant tales. 
But what of him ? He is not in the race, 
His claim for happiness exists no more. 

L1<L In faith, I do not know why it should 
not. 
I think his guilt is pardonable sin, 
Not gi-eat enough to sacrifice him for. 
It was a moment's madness, not so bad 
As it might seem if seen with jealous eyes. 

^Y^'st. O, I lielieve it was not Imd for you. 
You take it cooU}-, are not hurt at all : 
*' There is no harm in it, O no, O no ! 
A nice young man, he takes us to his heart, 
And kisses us ; pray, tell me, where's the harm ? 
It was not right — he had another girl. 
But then that is no fault — it was not >\Tong — 
O, not at all ; you know, in righteous love 
We close our eyes to such a little joke, 
And keep quite still ; a kiss will never kill ; 
And then, we cannot help if we're so nice. 
If tliis enticed him to embrace us ; why. 
The world is not in danger for that much. 
'Tis nothing bad — in fact, it was mere fun." 
But if tlie sinner were an older man. 



84 THE FLVTOCIUT. 

One lean and lank, without attractions, then, 

" The gray old sinner has no sense of shame. 

The ugiy monster, the enfeel^led fright, 

To kiss a decent woman ! 'Tis a crune ! 

Fie, sliame ! No pardon ! He must pay for it ! 

To so insult us — us, whose innocence 

Cries for revenge ! O, what a shock it is ! " 

Ida. Your mad insinuations cannot hm't ; 
I am ahove your \ile vituperation. 
Noble is that youth, though once misled. 

West. Ah, yes, he's nol)le ; that will cover all. 
And he can take such little liberties. 
He is misled by his young, fiery heart. 
And what of that f If I should dare the same, 
I'm sure you'd pitilessly scratch my face. 

Ida. West, I believe you're right. 

West. I know I am. 

You didn't scratch him, did you ? 

Ida. O, how I hate 

Your oily insults ! 

West. Do not caU them that 

Because I often tell unwelcome truths. 
I know the world has always much indulged 
The sins of younger men, not those of old 
And ugly ones. I don't dispute that right. 
I know there is too gi'cat a difference 
Between a kiss from me and one from him. 



THE rLVTOCUAT. 85 

But there is still auotlier side to view. 
Yoiu" pardon, friend, cannot decide this case — 
It has been given with too great a joy. 
But what will Alice think, is now the point. 
Will she be satisfied ? She has been wronged, 
Not you alone, dear friend. 

Ida. I grant 'tis so. 

If you had used some of your eloquence 
For right as you have done tiU now for WTong, 
You could have done much good on earth, dear 
sir. 

West. Is it a wi'ong for which I intercede ? 
True, I confess, your views are very strange. 

Ida. Why, right or wrong, if Alice knew it all, 
She'd grant forgiveness without much ado. 

West. I do not doubt that she would pardon 
him; 
But then her peace of mind were lost and gone, 
And could not be restored were she assured 
Of his true, steady love. 

Ida. I well know that. 

This fact alone can prompt me not to teU 
Wliat Alice ought to know. I must keep silence. 
Why do you torment me, West ? Wherefore 
Do you insist that I make known to her 
The wi'ong done in a moment of wild passion. 
When you know that it wiU break her heart ? 



8G THE PLVTOCliAT. 

West. Yes, that is true — I diJ insist on that. 
And if I did, a lunisoii must have urged. 
The reason is that it might lielp me win ; 
But if you think 'twill do her real harm — 
And that it will, I only see too well — 
And if you think it shouhl not be di\'ulged, 
Then it shall stay our secret : that is all. 
It costs me much to do this, you must know, 
But I'll forget, and even will forgive. 
It is for Alice's sake and yours, my dear, 
Not in the least for hiin. 

Ida. That's a surprise : 

I hardly could expect as much as that. 
You make me think you're going to reform. 
West. Do I, then, need reform? I go to 
church — 
It is my only recreation now ; 
I'm member of a fashionable flock, 
Wliere all are sheep with heavy golden fleece, 
And where we're fleeced by fashion's strict de- 
mands. 
Ida. Is God to blame for thiMii ? Believe in 
Him ; 
And, if you can, think of a future life. 

West. I've thought of it, and pleasant was the 
thought 
As far as heaven is talked of ; l)ut in hell 



THE rLUTOVltAT. yy 

I couldu't believe. If God is merciful, 
He fathers not monstrosities of pain 
Which but the meanest cruelty can paint. 

Ma. You make religion suit convenience, sii', 
And fear has taught you this philosophy. 

West. If there can't be belief without a heU, 
I can believe in naught ; and verily 
I do believe in naught. Why should I fear 
Things which I do not see and cannot grasp ? 

Ida. So you believe iu naught, you say, and 
yet 
God, heaven, and hell are always on j-our Hps. 

West. 'Tis true, and they're sufficient for the 
crowd. 
If men ask for a gift or benefit, 
They are referred to heaven. They threaten me, 
I show them hell : it helps me wonderfully, 
For these men are only held in check 
By hope of a reward or fear of pain. 
Their piety is but mere selfishness — 
They're hirelings of a phantom, nothing else. 
Now, friend, teU me the truth : does not this fear 
In somewhat influence your actions too ? 

Ida. Yes, West, it does. I will not lie, it does. 
I am a sinner, yet my faith is strong. 
'Tis true that virtue has its own reward. 
That we should do the good for love of it, 



88 THE PLVTOCEAT. 

Not for our selfish motives and desires ; 
But merely doing rig-lit can never give 
Wliat we call happiness. It is not all. 
It must be all to those who lack belief, 
And even then their life is but a blank — 
Without strong faith it cannot have an aim. 
They must be satisfied to live like beasts ; 
Theii- pleasures even give them little joy, 
And soon they feel the more the want of hope. 
"We cannot find true happiness in life. 
You don't l)elieve in God and future bliss : 
Now tell me, West, what would you caU yom* life 
If your career on earth should now be closed ? 
Would you be satisfied with life or not "? 

West. Don't speak of that. In faith, you've 
got me there. 
I surely shoidd describe it as a fraud 
If I were now to die. With aU my work, 
I have not yet attained what I desire. 
And not one hour in my eventful life 
Has been a happy one. No, now to die. 
So near my aim, so near my happiness — 
No, now to die would make my life a blank ; 
And if there is no hell to ])unish me. 
Tins thought is worse than all the hells can be. 

Ida. It only shows the truth of what I said — 
Shows that vou hick and need that solace true 



THE FLUTOCIiAT. 89 

Wliicli but religion gives. If strong in faitli, 
We're every moment ready to leave earth. 

West. Yes, you are liapp}" fools ! I'm not like 
you. 

Ida. You can be if you will. 

West I'll try to-morrow. 

1(1(1. No, to-day is tlie accepted time : 
Who knows what ill to-morrow's dawn may bring ? 

West. And will you be my teacher, pretty 
friend ? 

T(hi. If I can help you to a better life, 
I'll do it with the utmost pleasure, West, 
For well you know your life has needed change. 

West. My heart's enlisted, take my hand ; be^ 
lieve, 
I will reform, I will reform for you. 
And now, fareweE, my dearest, gentlest, best, 
My only faithful friend. Farewell, farewell. 
I must attend to weighty things at once. 

[Exit West 

Ida. O God, can I believe my eyes and ears ? 
Grant what he said is really meant by him. 
For it would end oui' troubles and our grief. 
God, Thou didst wonders, and dost wonders stiU, 
And if Thou wilt, Thou canst refoi'm him too. 

[Exit Ida. 



<J0 THE J'LUTOCL'AT. 

Scene III. Boom in Wesfs House. 

West. [To*SV/vY/;*f] CaUMr. Hemy. He's still 
in the mill, 
I see a ligiit — lie must be in Lis room. 

[Exit tSernnif. 
I must get rid of liiin, then I'll have rest. 
Can calmly reap the fruit of my designs. 
If they should meet once more my labor's lost. 
My structure tumbles, and — 

Entei' Henry. 

0, there you are. 
Young man, what have you done, what have you 

done f 
To so forget yourself ! Fie, shame on you ! 
And yet with all my heart I can condole. 
You called me names. Wliat do I care for that f 
I caU no names, but I can pity you. 

Henri/. I do not ask your pity, sir : don't strut, 
Take off the mask, don't be theatrical. 
I know that you enjoy what I have done ; 
State what you want. Be brief, I pray, and plain. 

West. If that is your desire, I ^^^ll, young num. 
I need not tell you of the deep distress 
Of those two ladies whom you greatly wronged. 
However, 'tis tlicir wisli llirdiigli me to say 



THE PLrTOCIiAT. <Jl 

That your eiig'ag'ement must Ix' ])r()keii of£. 
I ouly add a frieud's advice to this : 
Flee far away ; there's money here — take all — 
Take all that you uuxy need, but flee. Be 

quick ! 
And seek elsewhere the bliss that here you've 

lost. 
Henry. Ah, yes ! I will depart from here — I 

go. 
But where I go there is no need of gold. 
And when I go, I will go like a man ; 
Not like a coward will I part from here, 
Abandon those whom I betrayed and lost. 
But a few days, and they'll be saved from care. 
They will be rich, l)e I'ich in spite of you. 
What they would not accept from me ahve 
They hardly will refuse when I am dead. 

West. You can do as you please. You must 

know best ; 
Your role of savior is a childish role. 
You'd better save yourself if still you can : 
There is no cause as yet for seeking death. 
I hope you do not meditate this step. 
Think of a future life ! 

Henri/. Wluit is the use? 

O, had I but believed in (rod and heaven, 
I'd be another man than I am now. 



92 IHE PLVTOCUAT. 

Had I but liad the simple faith of ^ood 

Aud honest men, I conkl be happy yet. 

In science and in study is no rest. 

When others slept, I've tortured my poor brain, 

Have tried so hard to fathom all — and failed : 

The more I thought the more confused I grew, 

And found myself more wTetched than before. 

West. You, too, you are an unbeliever, man ; 
You truly do sui'prise me, 'tis so strange ! 

Henrij. I've always tried to lead an upright 
life, 
Have helped my bretlu-en aU with open hand, 
Was kind to all, yet happy I was not. 
I kept alone, denied myself the things 
Which so delight the thoughtless of to-day, 
And yet I envied them their thoughtlessness. 
There was a missing something in my life, 
But what it was I never could define. 
In love I hoped to find the long-sought gift — 
One moment has destroyed the sweet illusion. 
How I came to leave my faithful gui 
I hardly can explain. Life is a riddle. 
Ida's beauty and her fearless mind. 
And with it all a woman's weakness ; then 
Her fearful struggles with her passionate heart, 
Her true, strong love — again her fiery hate — 
In fine, all these contrasting charms combined 



THE rLUrOCRAT. 93 

Had proved to iiie a fascination strong-. 
I yearned to help her, and forgot myself, 
And ere I thought I fell — fell fathom deep. 

West. Enough of that. What will you do ? I 
ask. 
The sooner it is done, the better done. 
It saves both sides a vast amount of pain. 

Henry. As long as they are saved, care not for 
me. 
What shall I do f I have no chosen road, 
I do not care if it but leads to death. 
Now I see clearly. Life is naught. Moreover, 
Death is naught, and naught to naught is naught. 
Then let me sink into the merciful 
And vast abyss of nothingness — to end 
The pain and anguish of a tortured mind. 

West. Sink, by all means, storm-tossed and 
fevered youth ! 
You are quite right, life is a wretched farce, 
And I cannot advise against your wish. 
Indeed, I fain would follow you. 

IleHyij. 0, do ! 

'Twould be the best deed that you ever did. 

We.^t. It takes a little corn-age, but it gives 
Eternal rest, and what more can we ask ? 
A quick resolve, with one quick stroke in time, 
Gives us perpetual peace. Whate'er you do. 



94 THE I'LVTOVRAT. 

Be quick about it. 'Tis a friend's advice, 
Aud is the essence of pliilosopliy. 

Henri/. Though 'tis a fiend's advice, I take it 

yet. 
West. Then fare thee well, and good success 

to thee. [Exit Henri/. 

The way is cleared, the last obstruction stormed, 
And o'er another victim goes my path. 
But what of that ? He was not for this world, 
This grand, good fool, with his soft baby-heart, 
Too loving and too good to meet success. 
He'll make them rich, but it will be too late, 
Aud in the end the harvest will be mine. 
It takes a man like me, who knows no fear. 
Asks naught from God, from destiny, or fate. 
To come at last to the long-fought-for end. 
What do I care for fate f I'm fate myself, 
And have been fate to aU the gaping fools 
Who had the hardihood to give me fight ; 
They are mere puppets in my iron hands, 
I lead them merrily to death or doom. 
And yet — and yet — I am not gratified ; 
There is some truth in all that Ida said. 
But what's the use ? Shall I too be a fool ? 
No, no, I cannot live on hopes, my friend ; 
Let me go on through life in my old way. 
And be ye fools as long as you nniy live. 



rilK I'lATOL'UAT. 95 

T()-nu')iT()\v's t^iiii shall s(H' my victor's smile. 
And I'll retire lunv to a well-earned rest. 
I've braveh' fought, and I have won the fight. 
Good-nig'ht, ye fools I Ye fools, I say, g-ood-night ! 

[Exit West 

ACT V. 

Scene I. Room in Mrs. Field's House. 

Alice. I am resigned, and I am happy now. 
This dnsky earth fades from my weary eyes, 
And heavenly cabnness reigns supreme in me. 
What though that calm is purchased with my life ? 
Wliat though it contemplates a broken heart ? 
ni fade from this into another life. 
And may that life be one sweet dream of rest. 
From that fair world beyond I shall look down, 
Protecting mother and my dearest friend. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. There must be a big fire in town, Miss 
Field, 
We see the fianies reflected in the clouds. 

[Ej'it Servant. 
Enter Ida. 

Ida. I hear West's house is blazing, child. 
Alice. His hous^' 



9G 'J'iil'^ rLiTOCEAT. 

Ill Hames '! Then I iiiiLst go to Uncle West; 
I can't leave him alone in his distress. 

Ida. Dear child, stay here. I've sent a mes- 
senger. 

Alice. I find no rest if I am not with him : 
I am so frightened, and my heart declares 
That something awf nl mnst have happened there. 

Ida. Stay, child, be not so rash, stay here with 
nic; 
"West's not the man to ask a woman's help. 

Alice. Yet he'U be glad to see me, will he not? 
I'll stand by him as he has stood by me ; 
He is my friend, w^tli him I stand or fall. 
If he should die, tlien I will die with him. 

Ida. My dearest c^liild, I do not understand ; 
But don't be restive, I will go with you. 
O Alice, tell me what has saddened you, 
That all the smiles have faded fi-om your face ! 

Alice. Though 'tis no time to smile, I can still 
smile ; 
l>ut, mother, let me go. 

Ida. O, do not go. 

How pale you are! What ails you, darling? 

Speak ! 
Your smile is not my merry daughter's smile. 
My poor, dear child, pray tell me why you're sad. 

Alice. No, mother, no, I'm very happy now. 



THE PLUTOCRAT. 97 

And soon I shall be happier still with Him, 
My Maker, who will take me back again 
From this life to a never-ending jo}'. 
Pray send for Henry — I must see him yet 
Before my earthly mission is fulfilled. 
Before I go I'U seal the happiness 
Of you and him, the most beloved of friends. 

Ida. Ah, now I see. I understand you now. 
My God, why did I once beheve the wretch ? 
But you're deceived, my child, you are deceived, 
And all West told you has been worse than lies. 
Henry forgot himself — 'tis but too true — 
Yet he has never ceased to love you, dear, 
And here before my God I swear to you 
I never loved him more than mothers love 
The future husband of their dearest child. 
O God, destroy the treacherous, fiendish wretch. 
Who ruined me and now will ruin her ! 

[Rings for Servant. 

Enter Servant. 

Quick ! go and summon Mr. Henry here, 
Tell him to come without the least delay. 
Alice. Did I hear right? Or am I in a 
dream ? 
O no, 'tis a mistake. Is West not good ? 
Has lie not been to me a faithful friend ? 



98 I'llJ^ riA'TOCUAT. 

I(l(t. He is the devil in a liuinaii sliMi)e. 
.My life lie made a lone:, nneeasing' ])aiii ; 
Your father, I believe, was killed ])y liiin, 
.Vnd now he wants to roh nie yet of yon. 
jly curse on him, the WTecker of my life ! 

Alice. What did I hear? Dear mother, pray 
be calm. 
He a deceiver ? Then he is a fiend ! 
Men cannot i)lay such wretched, risky part. 

Ida. I did not wish to ever tell you this ; 
I strove to carry my deep gi-ief alone. 
Thus to preserve your heart's sweet innocence, 
Ag'ain my sacrifice has been in vain ! 

Enter Henry. 

Henri/. Can y(ni still i^ardon me for what I've 
done ? 

Ida. I must refer y(m to my dau<ihter, sir; 
My pardon will be easily obtaintnl. 
You'll never know the jewel you possessed. 
If I should tell you what she's done for you, 
Then you might see the depth of woman's love, 
]Might see how small you are compared with them, 
Ye, men with little love and godlike j)ride ! 
Slie had resigned to see her lover's bliss. 
Were her own heart to break in the attempt. 

Uf)!)'!/. I know I am not worthy of her love, 



THE VHTOVliAT. 99 

Though I do h>V(' luT more than cVr before. 
Could I describe the agony i)r()found 
That scorched my Ijrain in these few dreary hours, 
You would dismiss me with one word of hope, 
And bring \n\ torment to a sudden close. 
One ray of light I've found in my dark course : 
I've saved you fi'om the clutches of that fiend. 
]My new invention will free you from care. 
And you are rich. Am I forgiven f Speak ! 
Then I will go — go, never to return. 

Alice. But if I want to keep you, Henry dear! 

Hetiry. Ah, Alice, do not play with me like this. 
Our iron age produces no such souls. 
Your Christian faith dethroned the Grecian god ; 
For one mistake men are now doomed to hell ! 

Alice. I'm l)ut a simple^ and a foolish girl ; 
Yon give me pain, 3'ou make me sad, 'tis true, 
Yet is there need to tell you how I love ? 
Yes, love you more than all words can express. 
]5etween us nauglit is changed ; we're as before. 
But make your peace witli Heaven, pray to our 

God, 
And He \W11 hear you in His l)Oundless grace. 

Henri/. But, Alice dear, you can forget, still 
love ? 
I see there is a God ; I liave been blind. 
The god dwells in vour heart — his name is Love. 



100 '^'liJ^ I'LUTOCIiAI. 

We all must worship at his altar, or 
We reap but pain, but niiseiy and woe. 
Such souls as yours, my child, no mortal's are. 
'Tis love that keeps this shaky world intact, 
Without it we are naught but moi'tal elay. 

Enter Workingmen and Servants. 

Paul. Is Mr. Henry here ? 

Henry. Yes, here I am. 

What is it, Paul ? What do you want, my friends ? 

FaMl. We've come to tell you, sir, that West 
is dead. 

Henry, Tdu, Alice. West dead? Impossible! 

Fanl. Yes, West is dead. 

He's dead, and though a heartless, wicked man, 
It was indeed an awfid end foi' him, 

Ida. How did it happen, tell me, my good 
man ! 

Paul. We were awakened by the cry of fire ; 
And rising, soon our sleepy eyes l^eheld 
A sea of flame reflected in the clouds. 
We hurried to the scene of the big blaze. 
It was West's house — fast burning to the ground. 
The servants all were saved, but West was not ; 
And soon we saw him at a window high. 
His life depended on a lucky leap ; 
He knew it too, we saw it in his face. 



THE rLL'TOClUT. K)! 

He wore his usual calm. No cry or nioau, 
No prayer or curse, escaped liini. Hard as tliut, 
He measured still the distance to the earth, 
When something happened which I'll ne'er forget. 
The women screamed, '' The devil ! See him 

there ! " 
The hardest men were chilled, chilled to the bones, 
\^'lien a dark figure, blackened by the smoke. 
Approached West from behind, and then tried 

hard 
To drag his victim with him to the fire. 
It was a fearful battle fought up there, 
And still grim Fate decreed that West should 

win; 
And calm and cool he hurled Jack to his grave. 
Again he tried to make that fearful leap ; 
He still looked down on us with stern disdain, 
His scornful smile seemed still to say, " Be- 
ware ! 
You shan't forget, and you'U repent this hour." 
Wlien with an awful crash the walls came down. 
And both are buried in that tomb of fire. 
May God be merciful and save their souls ! 

Enter Lawyer, wJw sjiecds to Ida. 

Henry. Then he is dead, this all-defying man, 
Wlio tauntingly has challenged his dire fate. 



102 ^'^^' J'LCTOCL'JT. 

He has deserved it, but I pity liim ; 

His awful eud pays for liis sins and debts. 

Ida. The judg-meut falls. Oni- (lod is stern 

and just. 
Long- He has waited, but the man was hard, 
His eup was full, was floating to the l)rini. 
I told him so, he only laughed at me, 
And unprepared he's gone to meet his doom. 
But all his sins to me. Lord, wipe them out, 
They are forgiven. Let us all forgive. 
And may he find forgiveness mth Thee too, 
[To Woi-l-iH(/iH(ii] And now a word to you, my 

honest friends : 
I must believe that I'm your mistress now. 
This gentleman, who has been West's attorney, 
Says that West has willed his all to me. 
It is a solenni trust that I accept, 
And with God's help I will now try my best 
To heal the many wounds wdiioh West has torn. 
Not for myself I take his riches, friends ; 
From now each is my child, your mother I, 
And all will be devoted to your good. 
God grant me all the strength to do my work. 
With my new son's and with my daughter's aid. 
Hfin-i/. Yes, numnts of gold and seas of blood 

freed black ; 
Good-will alone can make the wliitc slaves free. 



Tin: I'l.rrocUAT. lo;; 

M'orkiiKjiiieii. L()ii<>' live our mistress aud the 
happy pail' ! 
For freedom's cause begins a glorious fight; 
Out riug- our battle-cry : Unite, unite ! 

[Curtain falls. 

The End. 



